


His Captor, His Savior

by Maddam_Redder



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Disorder, Child Abuse, Consensual Underage Sex, Crying, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gay Male Character, Gay Sex, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Male Slash, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys, Underage Drinking, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 13:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maddam_Redder/pseuds/Maddam_Redder
Summary: [Slash, M/M, Yaoi] Skylar hates his life. He's used, abused, and taken advantage of all the time, but he deals with it the best he can with alcohol and drugs. Now, to make matters worse, he gets kidnapped. But little does his kidnapper know, Skylar's life with this man may be better than it was before… Or is it? Warnings: See Author's Note For Details.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 25





	1. Used

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings: Non-con and Dub-con, Graphic sexual content, Homosexuality (m/m), Underage sex, smoking, drinking, and drugs, Mild torture, Harsh language, Mentions of Stockholm Syndrome, and lots and lots of angst!**
> 
> _All of the characters in this story are fictitious, as are their actions, ideas, and viewpoints. All of the places and occurrences in this story are fictitious as well._
> 
> _This story WILL have a happy ending! There will just be lots of angst on the journey there._
> 
> _Enjoy ;)_

I press the cigarette to my chapped lips with shaking hands and take a slow steady drag, filling my lungs with burning smoke and my bloodstream with soothing nicotine. It's not what I want to be smoking right now, but it'll have to do. The smoke escapes my mouth in wisps, heavy and thick in the early winter air, disappearing into the night like I so desperately want to. I lift the vodka filled water bottle to my mouth and take another gulp, enjoying the warm burn as it plunges into my empty stomach. It's late, too late to be out on a school night getting drunk and waiting to watch a fight, but I don't care; and it's not like I have anyone at home worried about my well being anyways.

The clamor of the other boys around me is calming only because it's such a familiar scene: the tailgates down, the blasting music, the drunken classmates, eager and ready to see what mischief the night will bring. The setting is the usual parking lot, the one that stays deserted behind the old bar that was once busy and fruitful, but now only serves the truckers from the truck stop a few yards away. The tall lights illuminating the thundering eighteen-wheelers belching smoke and steam provides the only source of light in the dark lot we're crowded in.

I never imagined myself to be a part of this crowd. Which I'm not really, I'm only tolerated because of him. It's been this way since I started high school almost four months ago. I'm now somewhat used to the assholes who surround me with their loud talking and disgusting actions. But there's a different atmosphere tonight than usual, such a tense and stressful aura filling the air that I feel as if I could slice it with the blade that sits heavy in the pocket of my worn jeans. At the thought, my freezing hand dips into that pocket and I grip the cold metal of the pocket knife for a sense of comfort and to make sure it's still there; it would be just my luck to lose it and then end up getting caught in the middle of the expected fight. I definitely couldn't hold my own against the boys who will be here soon.

The whole thing is stupid really, just dumb teenager drama over spoken words and haughty attitudes, involving girls and inflated egos; stuff that I could care less about. I look over towards the only reason I'm even here: Blake Holden. The older boy's blonde hair gleams even in the muted light and his dazzling smile lights up his handsome face in a way that charms everyone around him as he laughs at something one of the other guys said. He's going into battle over his girlfriend's reputation tonight, apparently someone called her a slut. All of his beefcake buddies are here to back him up and step in if things get out of hand or if he gets ganged up on. I'm here to watch the show, and only because he asked me to come. I know his request for my presence has ulterior motives, but that doesn't bother me; I'm just happy to be out of my fucking house.

Blake's bright blue eyes suddenly dart over and connects with mine in a clash of turquoise and hazel. I quickly look away, my cheeks flushing pink from more than just the biting cold now. I wish he didn't have that affect on me, it would be so much easier if he didn't. The crunching footsteps now coming towards me where I sit on the open tailgate of Blake's huge truck seem loud above the rest of the noise around me. Soon they stop and the truck suddenly dips heavily from Blake's sturdy weight as he hops onto the cold metal to sit beside me.

"This is fucking bullshit, man. It's already two fucking o'clock. I bet he pussied out," Blake's steady voice resonates in my chest. His football player body is close enough for me to feel the warmth radiating off of it and I take a small comfort in that fact, even though I know it doesn't mean anything.

I take another swig of alcohol and take more comfort in the intoxicating liquid than in his warmth; after all, it's what keeps me sane. Blake reaches over to snag the cigarette from my thin fingers and takes in a lungful of smoke, then blows it out in a rush, needing the nicotine to settle his hyped up nerves. A big hand suddenly snatches my bottle of precious liquid from my hand too and I look up to watch as Blake takes several large gulps.

"What the fuck, Blake..." I grumble, snatching it back before the blond can down the whole bottle.

Blake chuckles and smiles at me, a lighthearted smile that soothes away any tension between us immediately, which I hate; I wish I could stay mad at him just once.

"Sorry, Sky," he says, reaching over and ruffling my jet black tousled hair. I fight the urge to flinch away from the kind gesture, knowing Blake means no harm by it, but the simple touch bothers me in ways the older boy will never understand.

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, passing the smoke back and forth as he watches the group of ten high schoolers a few feet away from us.

"You know you didn't have to come. It could get kind of crazy tonight," Blake says quietly, keeping his eyes on the crowd.

I glance up at the jock and take another swig of alcohol.

"Then why did you ask me to?" I ask, my husky voice tired.

Blake shrugs and looks over at me, both of us knowing the answer to that question, but neither one going to say it aloud. I look away from him to stare back at the ground, my thoughts heavy and burdening as always, the alcohol not working fast enough to cloud my mind and make the pain go away. I can feel Blake's eyes on me still and I can sense the heat in that gaze, knowing what he wants with familiar certainty. I'm willing to give it to him even though I know it's wrong and that he's just using me. It makes me feel needed and wanted, it gives me a purpose. It helps make those painful thoughts fade to the back of my mind for a little while.

Blake shifts beside me, flicking the used up cigarette to the gravel, then clears his throat in a nervous fashion.

"Yo, D-Man!" He suddenly calls out, jumping to the ground and snuffing out the still gleaming tip of the smoke with his shoe.

Another football player the size of the hulk looks over in our direction.

"Sup?" He calls out above the heavy metal blaring from another truck.

"I gotta talk to Skylar about something, come get me when the fuckers get here," Blake says with a jerk of his head to gesture towards me. The other guy nods and turns back to the group he's standing with.

Blake hesitates a moment, watching his friends, but then turns back to me and grabs my wrist. He pulls me off the tailgate to stand and begins dragging me towards the bar. I shove the water bottle into my hoodie pocket and go willingly, the only thing keeping me on my feet being Blake's hand since my head is reeling from the vodka coursing through my veins.

There's an outdoor, single stall bathroom connected to the old building that no one ever uses anymore. Blake pulls me into the filthy room, then shuts and locks the door behind us. It's warmer in here than it is outside, but I'm still so cold I'm shivering. A dim, bare light bulb buzzes to life, assaulting my eyes a moment before I'm shoved up against the graffiti covered wall. Blake's mouth comes down on mine, hard and passionate, and I eagerly open my mouth for the hungry kiss, allowing the older boy to pummel my lips with nips and bites. The jock presses me against the wall with his firm body, gripping my thin arms tight. He pulls away from the heated kiss after a few minutes to stare down at me, breathless and panting from desire.

"Fuck, Sky, this can't keep happening," he murmurs, leaning down to press his sweaty forehead against mine.

"You say that every time," I say softly with small smile, enjoying his warm body pinning me fully to the wall and the feel of his bulging erection against my stomach.

"How do you make me feel so fucking crazy?" He growls, attacking my mouth again with another rough kiss, grinding his teeth against mine, all of his confusion and distress thrust into the meeting of lips.

I don't think the senior understands why he wants me so badly and neither do I. He says he's not gay, he's one of the most popular guys in school, and he's dating Brittany Sterling, the gorgeous head cheerleader on the varsity cheerleading squad. He tells me he couldn't be happier with his life. He's got it made, what more could he want? But apparently the kid in front of him makes his blood boil with lust in a way Brittany never makes him feel. According to Blake I make him feel crazy and out of his mind. I don't know what he sees in me that makes him want me so badly, but I don't object; I sort of like being his secret little whore.

He pulls away from the kiss again and presses me against the wall harder, making me let out a soft gasp of surprise, which makes him groan and kiss me deeper. There's something about me that makes Blake want to be rough with me and use me, which is exactly what he's been doing for the past few months. He spotted me the first day of school in the hallway. He had been with his stupid friends, all of them joking and clowning around. We made eye contact and he had smiled at me, but I had quickly looked away and tried to ignore him. I really didn't want any trouble on my first day of high school. I deal with enough crap at home and I didn't want to attract the attention of someone like Blake; he definitely looks like someone who would bully someone like me.

That didn't deter Blake, though. Before I had a chance to get away, he approached me and cornered me against my locker. He had asked me my name and I had quietly told him it was none of his fucking business, which had just made him laugh softly. I managed to get away from him when the bell for class rang, but he found me again during lunch. He somehow knew my name then, probably by asking one of my classmates. I couldn't really bring myself to worry about what he wanted from me because by that point in the day I was so drunk I could barely stay awake. Blake attempted to make small conversation with me, but after a few one word answers from me he finally asked me if I was hungry.

I was starving, I hadn't eaten in two days thanks to my bastard father, and I had no money for lunch. So when he offered to buy me something to eat off campus I had shrugged and went with him. I was sort of nervous, but I didn't really care about something happening to me if I had a chance to get food. But nothing did. Blake bought me lunch and talked to me through the entire lunch period, then brought me back to school. He didn't want me to pay him back and he didn't expect anything from me. He just asked if we could hang out again soon, which was weird, but I shrugged and said "okay". We've been hanging out ever since that day.

I don't know what it is about me that got Blake's attention, but somehow I made him want to get to know me. So the jock had befriended the loner kid, confusing his fellow upperclassmen. He made a stupid excuse about me being a long lost cousin and not seeing each other for years or something like that. A lie he expected me to play along with, and I did because he told me to and I didn't want my ass kicked by a big jock like him.

In reality the senior knows nothing of my world beyond the baggy jacket and blank stare I always hide behind, both covering well hidden scars, healing bruises, and wounds I never want anyone else to see. I'm an enigma to my fellow classmates and I have no problem keeping it that way. When Blake Holden had cornered me that first day of my high school career, it hadn't bothered me. I was so used to the bullying and torture, another abuser wouldn't have surprised me. But Blake had created an even bigger problem than being a threat to my physical safety: he became a threat to my head.

I don't want friends. I don't need friends. Friends cause problems I'm not willing to deal with. Friends ask questions and want to share secrets, questions I don't want to answer and secrets I want to keep to myself. Luckily Blake didn't want to be that kind of friend; he just wanted the "benefits".

At first, his seemingly sincere attitude made me put up my well made shields to protect myself from future heart ache that I knew would come, but the older boy broke down those shields with sweet words and kind gestures. Like buying me the thick hoodie I now wear that keeps me warmer and more comfortable than the old tattered one I had before; it's the most expensive piece of clothing I have ever owned and I treasure it. I wasn't completely fooled by his schmoozing, I'm well aware that people only do nice things for others for their own selfish pleasures in the long run. So it came as no surprise to me when Blake asked for a blow job in the school bathroom two weeks after our first meeting.

I'm sure Blake had felt nervous and idiotic for asking another boy to suck his dick. I'm sure he had honestly expected me to rebuke his request with disgust, probably prepared to have to threaten me to secrecy unless I wanted the rest of my freshman year to be a living hell. But much to Blake's surprise, and delight, I had simply dropped to my knees and proceeded to give him the "best head he had ever had". He didn't understand why I was so willing to let him use me like he did and he never will, and I've continued to let it happen with no resistance.

I'm happy to give him what he wants, as long as I get what I need: his control and domination. Which I get easily because it's just his nature to be controlling and dominating. Blake doesn't even know what I want from him because I've never said it out loud, I guess he just thinks I'm a naive brat who is giving and caring. But I'm not. I'm selfish and needy in my own ways.

The blow jobs gradually increased from once a week, to once a day, and before either of us really even knew what was happening he had me bent over a table in a dark, empty classroom, fucking me. He says sex with me is like nothing he has ever experienced, I do nothing but give and give, and expect nothing in return, which I guess in a way is my nature.

I know Blake is using me, I'm not stupid, but it doesn't matter. I need to be used, to be reminded of my place and kept there by a strong hand. A hand other than the one that holds me down everyday behind closed doors. I need different hands, a different body, a different mouth. Like the hands shoving me even harder into the cold wall, and the body grinding against mine, and the mouth claiming more hot and heavy kisses right at this moment.

"Can you suck me off?" He murmurs against my lips and I nod immediately; I knew he would ask eventually.

Blake pulls me away from the wall quickly and takes my place to lean against it. Then his hand is gently sliding through my hair and he's urging me to get down on my knees.

"Fuck, Sky, we gotta hurry. They'll be here soon," he pants softly.

I gladly obey, quickly unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans to release his bulging cock. I take his impressive girth into my mouth, easily sliding him down my throat, enjoying the familiar taste. He moans above me, his hands now gripped tight in my hair, mumbling something along the lines of "how are you so good".

Blake will never know why I'm "so good" because it's not something I wish to share with him. It's something that should have never happened in the first place, but continues to happen against my will all the fucking time. The reason I'm "so good" is because my alcoholic father took an unhealthy interest in his son about five years ago. He has physically abused me my whole life, but this sudden turn of events happened a couple months after my mother left us. I can't fight him. I'm small for my age, tiny and delicate, easily manhandled by my burly dad. Fighting him has never helped when he's beating me either; I eventually just stopped trying. So now, for sick and twisted reasons, I'm my daddy's little fuck toy.

I hate him with a passion, he is the bane of my existence. But I guess I can't blame him entirely because he's never sober when it happens. When he's sober I get my ass kicked, when he's drunk I get my ass fucked. He's never said it directly, but I know it's because I look so much like my mother. I have her delicate, effeminate features, her soft brown hair, her full lips, her big doe eyes that are an exotic hazel color. He's even said her name before when he was raping me.

I went so far as to dye my hair black to maybe help dad see it wasn't his former wife underneath him in his drunken stupors, but that just ended up pissing him off and I got the shit beat out of me for doing it without permission. I can't be near him without getting hurt in some way, so I avoid the house whenever possible to save myself from the pain. But he's always there in the back of my mind, his cruel words and hateful actions plaguing me at all times.

I started drinking alcohol and smoking cigarettes when I was thirteen, giving hand jobs and blow jobs to strangers for the price of a bottle of booze or a pack of smokes, just so I could find some relief from the chaos of my mind. I know it's wrong and unhealthy, but I didn't know what else to do. It helped at first, but not enough, so I started experimenting with drugs. I found the only one I could tolerate was pot, anything else caused hallucinations that always involved my neglectful parents. Every time I put that bottle to my mouth or a cigarette to my lips I know I'm becoming more and more like my dad, but a part of me knows that I can never truly be like him; at least I like to think I never will be. Hopefully I'll end up more like my mother, who, despite her abandoning me with my deranged father, is a kind woman; it's not her fault that I remind her of my dad too much to want to be around me.

Blake pulls me out of my torturous thoughts when he comes in the back of my throat with several thick spurts, choking me slightly before I can swallow it down.

"Fucking hell, Sky," he breathes as his hands slip out of my hair and I pull away from him. "I can't get enough of you. I'm gonna win that fucking fight thanks to you."

I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and try to stand up, only to succeed in losing my balance and falling on my ass. He chuckles softly and shakes his head at me like he thinks I'm being cute, before offering a hand to help me to my feet. I dust the dirt from my pants with one hand and steady myself on the wall with the other as he fixes his own pants. I stare at the floor, trying to get my swimming eyes to focus. I can feel him watching me and I glance up at his steady gaze. It's a familiar, concerned look he gives me a lot, like when I show up to school falling down drunk, or high off my ass, reeking of pot, with bruises all over my face. It's a look I don't want to see right now.

He doesn't really care about me. I know what this relationship is. But it still feels nice to know that someone is at least a little bit concerned about my well being, even if it is just because he feels guilty sometimes about using me. I don't want him to care about me in any way though, because it's just going to make it that much harder when he tosses me to the side, like I know he will soon. We can't keep this charade up, it's too risky for his reputation; he's informed me of this dozens of times. I'm just waiting for the day when he refuses to speak to me and denies that he even knows me. Yeah it'll hurt, but I'm expecting it. I can't let my feelings get in the way and complicate things even more than they already have.

"You okay, Sky?" He asks his normal question, his way of letting me know I've clearly went over my limit again.

I snort at his concern, leaning heavily against the wall, finally feeling the dulling glaze of the vodka smothering my senses.

"Never better, Blake," I respond with a crooked smile that belongs more to my father than it does to me.

He watches me with narrowed eyes and shakes his head again with a sigh, putting aside his worry for the poor piece of trash in front of him.

"Wanna go out to lunch tomorrow? My treat," he says, walking over to the mirror above the sink, clouded with age and decorated in foul language with sharpie marker.

He always insists on getting me things or taking me out to lunch after I do stuff like this for him, his way of paying me I guess, like I'm a prostitute. It doesn't bother me like it probably should.

"Doesn't it make Brittany mad that you take me out to lunch instead of her sometimes?" I ask softly, more joking than serious, but still curious.

He glances back at me with an odd look on his face and shakes his head.

"No. She thinks it's 'sweet'," he says, turning back to his reflection.

I don't really believe that because of the hateful glare she was giving me the last time Blake blew her off when he was taking me to lunch, but I don't say anything. I almost feel sort of bad for the girl, but I kind of like knowing that the perfect prom king and prom queen have a minor flaw in their relationship, that flaw being me.

If I wanted to, I could probably be the downfall of Blake Holden. I could out him and let the whole school know that he'd rather have sex with a little fag than with his bodacious, blonde girlfriend. I don't have any urge to do that though. I keep it in the back of my head to make myself feel better, but I'd never really do it. I blame my weakness on me being too much of a pussy to face the consequences if I actually did out him, but if I'm truthful with myself, I know it's mainly because I actually really care about the boy in front of me, and for that I want to keep his secret safe.

"Buy me another bottle of that shit you got me last time and we'll call it even," I tell him, leaning my head back against the wall and watching his reflection as he fixes his hair and straightens his clothes, making himself look perfect as always.

He sighs and shakes his head as he turns back around to face me.

"Sky, you know that's not what I meant..." he says softly, a regretful look on his face. He watches me for a moment before sighing and shaking his head again. "You're going to fucking kill yourself drinking so much," he mumbles, his worried expression making me look away from his face. "And Brad thinks I'm getting it for myself so he's cut me off. Don't your parents ever notice you're drunk?" He asks quietly.

I hate when he asks me about my parents. His parents are the epitome of a perfect family: handsome dad makes six figures a year; beautiful mom is a homemaker; their good-looking oldest son, Brad, is in a prestigious college one state over with a football scholarship and a 3.8 GPA, on his way to be an engineer like his father; and their youngest son, Blake, is expected to graduate this year with a 3.9 GPA, go to the same university his brother attends with a football scholarship as well, and study to be a doctor. It makes me fucking sick that he lets me touch him; I'm a piece of dirt compared to him.

"No, they're never home," I answer with my usual response, not lying because it's the truth since Mom has nothing to do with me anymore because her new family is more important and Dad's usually boozing it up at a bar with his friends until he runs out of money.

Blake watches me for a moment before sighing and shaking his head again. He walks back over to me and gazes down at me, making my knees feel weak with his sultry gaze; I really wish I wasn't so attracted to him. He brushes my unruly hair down so that it doesn't look like I was just fucked, and he tucks a few strands behind my ear. His big hand cups my cheek in a tender way that makes me shiver and feel like I have butterflies in my stomach. Sometimes I wonder if Brittany feels this way when he does stuff like this to her or if she takes for granted how lucky she really is. I want to kiss him again, but I know not to try. After he gets off he usually doesn't want to pretend we're lovers anymore, I think it bothers him. I don't want to ruin this moment, so I keep my mouth to myself.

"Sky, I don't want you to get hurt tonight, so stay out of the way, okay? I'll feel like shit if you do. Get your ass in my truck if it gets too bad and lock the doors. I can't be worrying about you while I'm dealing with that fucker Jax, alright?" He murmurs, stroking my check bone with his big thumb.

His calm, caring voice soothes me in ways that I can't get from anyone else in my life. I lean into his hand and nod, allowing myself a moment to enjoy the fact that he does actually care about me in his own way, in a way that doesn't involve sex or pleasure, just a friend caring about a friend. That means more to me than he will ever know.

A loud banging on the door interrupts our moment and he quickly pulls away from me, steeling his features and showing no sign that he just had a blow job.

"Hurry the fuck up, Blake. They're here," a deep muffled voice says from the other side of the door.

Blake walks to the door and glances back at me with a small smile and a wink, then unlocks the lock and jerks the door open to go fight his battle; leaving his secret whore feeling drunk, used, and utterly alone.

*  
_Reviews are greatly appreciated, very motivating, and keep me writing!_  
_Let me know what you think and thanks for your support! :)_


	2. Abandoned

I can already hear all the guys chanting when I finally manage to stumble out of the bathroom. I wrap my arms around myself for comfort and warmth, and make my way back over to the crowd, only teetering a little bit. The group has doubled in number, the other guy obviously bringing his friends as back-up as well. They've all formed a ring around the fight, making it to where I can't see what's going on because they're all so bulky and tall, and I'm so damn short.

I find Blake's truck and clamber back up onto the tailgate. After almost falling twice, I finally manage to stand steadily enough so that I can watch the action above the crowd's heads.

Blake is standing in all his glory like a Greek god with his legs shoulder width apart and his fists down at his sides. I've seen him fight before and he's good, so I'm not too worried about him; that is until I see the other guy, Jax. He's fucking huge, almost twice the size of Blake, and could probably crush me with his thumb. He looks like the total opposite of the blonde boy, with dark hair and dark eyes, handsome in his own way, but nothing compared to Blake. Jax is pacing back and forth like a caged tiger and has a crazy look on his face. I wish I could see Blake's expression, but his back is turned towards me. Even though I can't see his face, I know Blake is calm and collected; he's always in control and that's what I like about him.

They're exchanging words, putting on a good show for everyone, but I can't hear what they're saying over the roar of the other boys egging them on. Suddenly Jax hurtles towards Blake, aiming to tackle him, but Blake evades his attack, managing to step to the side just in time, moving to where I can see him better. Everyone on Blake's side is screaming that Jax is playing dirty and yelling other various things about foul play, while Jax's buddies are all yelling back that Blake's just a pussy and can't hold his own. It pisses me off to hear them talk about him like that.

Jax lunges for Blake again and manages to catch him in the jaw with a particularly hard punch this time. Blake stumbles back, wiping his bleeding mouth across his sleeve and glaring at the other boy. Seeing the mouth that was just kissing mine so passionately a few minutes ago bloodied makes me feel an odd pang in my chest and I hate that. I'm so hopelessly in love with the guy and I can't even admit it to myself. I'm so fucking pathetic.

For a few tense moments they glare each other down, and even from where I'm standing I can see the fire in Blake's glare. The look in his eyes makes me shiver in a weird sense of excitement and fright; I have the urge to make him angry more often just to see that intense spark...

Then they both smash into each other. It's a flurry of punches, fists connecting with flesh. The sounds make me cringe; I hate that noise because I know the pain that comes afterward all too well.

At first the two boys appear evenly matched, but it seems that Blake might be gaining some leverage. I find myself cheering for him inwardly, a small smile on my face, feeling a sense of foolish pride that a guy like him actually likes me in a weird way. I wonder if Brittany feels that sense of pride and if she feels special knowing he's out here defending her honor; I know I would give anything to have him defend me in that way. I hope she appreciates him as much as he deserves, if she doesn't she's an idiot.

The fight continues and it seems like Blake is going to end up being the champion, but in the next second Jax delivers a horrible sounding punch to Blake's head and the blond drops to the ground heavily. Jax is on him immediately, wailing on him like he's going to fucking kill him. My hands fly up to my mouth, muffling my gasp of horror as Jax's fists collide with Blake's head and body repeatedly. I feel sick watching and I have the sudden urge to run and try to stop the huge guy, but I know better than to do that even in my drunken stupor. I look away, unable to see what's becoming of Blake's handsome face, and that's when I see the headlights of a car on top of the hill pointing in the direction of the lot: a cop car. Shit.

No one else notices it, too wrapped up in the fight to see anything but the brutality in front of them. It seems like time has slowed down in my inebriated mind as I try to think of something to do. My eyes dart back and forth between the vehicle and the crowd. I try to yell and wave my arms to let everyone know the impending problem, but my quiet voice is lost in the roar of the guy's hollering and I almost lose my balance from moving too quickly.

I make the idiotic decision to jump off the tailgate to get closer to the group to try to get someone's attention. I leap off, expecting to land on my feet gracefully, completely forgetting I'm drunk off my ass. The jump reminds me of one of those old cartoons when a character hovers in the air for a moment before they plummet off a cliff holding up a sign that says "help". Except I know I'm not in the air for more than a millisecond, then I land face down on the old, cracked asphalt, knocking the air out of me. I manage to catch myself on my hands, luckily avoiding slamming my face into the pavement, but my body takes most of the impact. Fuck that hurt!

My thoughts of alerting the guys are completely gone as I struggle to drag in a normal breath of air into my burning lungs. I cough and gasp, rolling to my side and struggling to sit up. I vaguely wonder if Blake is still alive, it seems like it's been such a long time since I was watching him get his face beat in, but I know it's only been seconds. I start to push myself up, intent again on letting everyone know what lies waiting for them in the darkness behind them, but a lance of pain shoots through my left wrist and all other thoughts go out of my head other than that horrible throbbing. I grasp my arm, starting to panic because it feels broken, but I try to move it and it cooperates stiffly; probably just sprained, nothing I haven't had to deal with before. That's when the cop makes his move.

A flash of blue lights illuminate the parking lot and the loud blast of a warning siren silences the thundering bellows from the boys. They all seem to freeze for a second, turning towards the noise and lights, then it's a fucking stampede. I've never seen any of the football players move so fast, not even in a well played game. I feel like a bug on the ground as they all come barreling in the direction of where I'm still sitting.

I curl up into a ball and throw my hands over my head, my eyes closed tight, as if that will somehow protect me as they go thundering by; luckily I don't get trampled. They're all jumping in their trucks and each other's truck beds, screaming at one another to hurry up. I look over to where the fight was taking place to see if I can catch any sight of Blake to make sure he's okay, but the truck I'm sitting behind suddenly rumbles to life and peels out of the parking lot with the others, spraying me with loose gravel.

Blake's truck. My ride.

I turn around and watch it disappear down the road with the other vehicles, feeling a horrible mixture of betrayal and abandonment that makes my chest hurt. The sound of squealing tires and loud rumbling engines fade into the night and I look around at the now deserted parking lot, stunned into shock. He left me. He fucking left me... Well, at least I know he's okay...

I feel like I'm in a daze when I hear the sound of tires crunching slowly over gravel. I look over my shoulder to the see the cop car slowly pulling up closer to me. Apparently instead of chasing after the group of at least ten or more cars, he decided to go after an easier target: me. Shit.

The car stops a few meters away from me. The door opens slowly and I watch as one shiny shoe appears below the door and then the second. The cop takes his own sweet time getting out, obviously not afraid of me running since my dumb ass is still sitting on the cold ground.

A clean-cut, good-looking man with dark hair and bright eyes, in his late twenties, maybe early thirties, finally emerges from the vehicle, glaring down at me with his hand resting on the gun in his hip holster. He begins to walk over to me as slowly as he got out of the car. He stops a couple feet away and just looks at me for a moment with his head tilted to the side slightly, but then he finally speaks.

"Alright, son, go ahead and get up nice and slow, don't do anything stupid," he says in a smooth, pleasing voice.

I look up at the man and just stare at him blankly for a second, wondering how the hell I'm going to manage to get out of this without getting arrested, even though I know there's no way in hell that I will- I'm obviously drunk and clearly underage. My dad's going to fucking kill me when I have to call him to pick me up from the police station. I can't believe Blake left me...

I finally do as the cop said and struggle to my feet, staggering, falling, and ultimately ending up back on my ass after three tries. He's watching me with one raised eyebrow, a mixture between an amused and stern look on his face.

"How much have you had to drink tonight, son?" He asks, taking a few steps closer so that he's right beside me. His accent is different from the southern drawl I'm used to hearing around my town.

I shrug, finding that I'm so nervous I can't even make a sound leave my mouth, let alone my voice. He glares at me and leans forward, close to my face.

"Smells like you've been sitting in a tub of vodka, boy," he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

I stare at the ground, feeling ashamed and terrified, already imagining getting shipped off to juvey and all of the shit I'll go through at a place like that. I wonder how many years I'll get...

A big hand is suddenly on my arm and I'm yanked up to my feet quickly. The world around me goes spinning and I almost fall, but his firm grip keeps me upright. He hauls me over to his car and pushes me against the hood and glares down at me with his arms crossed over his chest. Then he turns me around and pushes me forward some, making me lean over the hood slightly.

"Hands on the car and spread your legs," he orders, like he's said those words a million times before.

I do as he says, feeling myself begin to tremble slightly at the realization that I'm about to be frisked by a real cop who will probably be arresting me soon. His hands are on me a few seconds later, traveling up and down my body. I know it's done to every person who's arrested, but I wonder if every other criminal out there feels so violated when this is done to them. Probably not, since I doubt many people are molested by their own father a third of their life; it's probably just me.

He finds my slightly crushed box of cigarettes and my vodka filled water bottle in my jacket pocket, and then my knife in my pants pocket, pulling it out and murmuring something about carrying a concealed weapon. Shit. He sets everything on the car and continues to feel for anything else I might have. His hand suddenly comes up between my legs, grabbing my crotch slightly, and I jump, letting out a pitiful whimper.

"Relax, kid, this is just a routine procedure," he says softly from behind me, his hands patting my ass now.

I know that, but I can't help but feel that his touch lingers too long and that he's being a little too thorough. My father has fucked me up so bad. I hate this.

He finally finishes and grabs my arm to turn me back around, pushing my shoulder so that I'm leaning my butt against the hood of his car. He stares at me for a moment before turning to my belongings. He starts by picking up the water bottle first. He opens the lid and sniffs the liquid, scrunching his face up at the strong smell of alcohol. He glares at me, then turns and pours the vodka out on the ground near my foot, spattering my sneaker and pants leg. Then he tosses the bottle away, surprising me slightly by his actions. What an asshole.

"How old are you, kid?" He asks, looking me up and down again slowly.

I blink up at him, momentarily forgetting my age, but then luckily it clicks in my head.

"F-fifteen," I mumble quietly, looking down at my feet. I'm starting to feel sick to my stomach. Why the fuck did I drink so much?

"Fifteen, huh? You look younger than that," he informs me as if I didn't already know this fact.

I simply shrug, deciding not to explain to him that he can blame my small stature on a father who thinks starving his son is a good punishment.

He glares at me some more, titling his head to the side slightly as if he's examining me from a different angle. He turns back to my stuff and picks up my cigarettes, holding them up.

"Aren't you a little young to have these? You know this stuff gives you cancer, right? It's not healthy for you," he says condescendingly. Then he drops them to the ground by my feet and steps on them, grinding them into the gravel with the toe of his shoe.

What the fuck. I watch with dismay as the tobacco squeezes out from its white sleeves, remembering the blow job I performed just to get that fucker outside of the gas station to buy me that pack. They were the expensive ones Blake likes and I made sure to ask for those. Why would he do that?

The cop picks up the knife next, which was a gift from my now dead maternal grandfather who I was very close to and the only family member who was ever kind to me, and my stomach lurches at the thought of what he might do to it. I bite my bottom lip in anticipation, hoping he doesn't break it. He opens it and turns it over in his hand, admiring the intricate designs on the handle.

"Very nice," he murmurs, then tucks it into his pocket.

What the hell!? He can't do that! Can he?

Before I can say anything he grabs my arm again and pulls me away from the car, turning me so my back is to him. My arms are suddenly yanked behind my back forcefully, making me gasp, then I can feel him snapping handcuffs around my wrists, hurting my sprained wrist some with his roughness. He pulls me over to the side of the car and pushes my back up against the backseat door roughly. He stares at me for a few seconds, looking me up and down like before, making me feel uncomfortable.

"What's your name, kid?" He finally asks after a tense moment of silence.

I sigh softly, hoping he doesn't hear me. I'm so very tired; I wonder how long this is going to take.

"Sky-"

My eyes widen when I cut myself off by suddenly doubling over and barfing all over the man's nice shoes. He quickly steps back out of the way, but not before I spatter him with droplets of stomach bile and vodka. Shit! How much deeper of a hole am I going to dig myself into tonight!?

He surprises me by laughing at me instead of yelling, but it's a cruel, mocking laugh that makes me feel worse than I already do. I look up at him hesitantly, straightening and wiping my mouth across my sleeve on my shoulder the best I can.

"Feel better?" He asks, smirking at me and shaking his foot to rid his shoe of the mess.

I nod weakly, because I do feel better now, but I feel so embarrassed my cheeks seem to be on fire from my blushing. What is wrong with me? I hardly ever puke when I drink, it must be because I'm so nervous.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, barely above a whisper.

He nods and chuckles softly, seeming to be getting some kind of entertainment out of my suffering; I hate cops like him.

"So, let's try that name again," he says, watching me carefully.

"Skylar Yancy," I tell him, keeping my head down.

"Full name, son," he orders.

"Skylar Kris Yancy. Kris with a K," I murmur quietly.

He pulls out a notepad and writes my name down.

"So your initials are SKY and I'm assuming your nickname is Sky? Clever," he says nonchalantly, looking at me with another smirk.

I nod, resisting the urge to roll my eyes since I practically hear this from everyone. Thanks a lot Mom.

"Okay, Skylar. May I call you 'Sky'?" He asks.

I shrug, not giving a shit one way or the other. My name is constantly changing at my house so it's not like it matters any: faggot, bitch, pussy, etc.

He smiles.

"Good. So, Sky, what is a young boy like you doing out here with a group of boys older and bigger than you at this late hour?" He asks, making the question sound like he doesn't really care, just asking because he has to.

"Jus' hangin' out, I guess," I slur, hating how drunk I really am; Blake's right, I am going to kill myself.

"Looks like there was a fight going on," the cop says, stepping closer to me.

I gaze up at him and shrug, not willing to get Blake and his friends in trouble.

"And who were you out here with? I would like some names," he says menacingly.

I swallow hard, feeling sick again. I only know a few of their names and I really don't want to tell him. Blake would hate me if I ratted him and his friends out.

"I-I don't know them," I mutter, looking away, wondering again how Blake could just leave me here like this.

He chuckles lowly.

"Not willing to squeal on your friends, huh?" He asks.

I shake my head, making the decision to keep my mouth shut, even if it causes me more problems. I don't want to be known as a rat too along with all of the other stereotypes I've been pegged with.

"You know you're in a lot of trouble, son," he says quietly, stepping even closer to me. "Underage drinking, public intoxication, carrying a concealed weapon... Not to mention anything else I can think of..."

I look back up at him, unable to hide my glare at his last comment. What a jerk.

"So I guess if you won't tell me who you were here with, I'll go ahead and bring you in. Unless..." He pauses, looking at me again, his eyes focusing on my mouth. "Unless, you want to work out a little deal..." He finishes slyly.

I stare up at the familiar look in his eyes, his words slowly sinking into my foggy brain, sobering me up some. Is he saying what I think he is?

"Wh-what do you mean?" I ask hesitantly, feeling sick again for an entirely different reason now.

He chuckles and steps even closer, standing so close now that his body is almost pressing me into the car. He leans close to my face, making me press myself against the window to distance our faces. I can smell the sharp, crisp scent of mint on his hot breath.

"I mean, maybe I can just let you go if you do me a little favor. I remember what it was like being a kid, and it looks like all your friends just abandoned you; I'd hate to ruin your night even more by having to lock you up. And you sure are a cute kid, pretty face and so tiny; I wouldn't mind knowing what it felt like to have that little mouth on me..."

I stare up at him in disbelief, feeling uncomfortable under his bright eyed gaze; his eyes are bluer than Blake's. I can't believe a cop is bribing me. Who the hell is this guy? Is he for real!? He'll let me go if I blow him? Fuck, I've done more for a pack of cigarettes before. And I really don't want to have to wake Dad up to come get me from the police station, he'd beat the shit out of me so bad I probably wouldn't be able to go to school for a week.

"You'd seriously let me go?" I ask softly, having a bad feeling that this might be a trick, that he'll still arrest me even if I do suck him off. I decide if it is a trick then I can always claim he forced himself on me when he brings me in. It's worth a shot.

He grins, almost seeming surprised that I'm considering his proposition.

"I'll even give you a ride home," he says charmingly. "So is that a yes? We have a deal?"

I swallow hard and nod, hoping this "deal" will be worth it.

He suddenly pulls me away from the door and opens it, then shoves me into the backseat roughly, almost cracking my head against the doorframe. The door slams closed behind me and he gets into the driver's seat, cranks the engine, and pulls out of the parking lot. I stay still and quiet, wondering if he lied and is taking me to jail anyway, then wondering why he would even say that in the first place if he was just going to take me in anyways. He speeds down the deserted roads of our small country town, taking turns sharply and slinging me into the door several times, bruising my shoulder.

Finally the car slows down and he pulls into a small cemetery, hidden from the road by some huge oak trees, a place I recognize because Blake has taken me here several times to fuck in his truck. I sort of feel like I'm cheating on him in a way, even though I do stuff like this all the time for alcohol and smokes. He doesn't know I do and I really don't want him to find out though. I guess I'm a bad person. But it's not like we're in a relationship, so I guess I can do what I want. It still makes me feel guilty though.

The cop stops the car, kills the engine, and gets out, then opens my door and pulls me out. He walks me around the car and opens the passenger door, pushes me in and slams the door shut. Then he climbs back into the driver's seat. It's so dark inside of the vehicle I can barely see him, but the glow from the lights on his dash board illuminates his face some. He turns to me and looks at me for a few seconds before speaking.

"I'll take the handcuffs off, but I'm warning you: if you try to run, you will regret it," he says patting his gun.

I stare at him, a little wide eyed from his threat, but nod slowly, not planning on running anyways since I'd probably just fall flat on my face as soon as I tried.

He grabs me and unlocks the cuffs. I rub my wrists, the sore one aching painfully. I glance up at him and see that he's watching me with an odd look on his face that I can't place.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" He asks suddenly.

"What do you mean?" I ask quietly, wondering if he means with another cop.

"Given a blow job. You're a little faggot, aren't you?"

His words make me angry and I glare at him. I hate that word. Dad calls me that all the time, as if it's my fault I am the way I am, when it's actually his. At one time in my life I believe I was straight, but I was ten when Dad started messing with me and it screwed me up really bad; it warped my self-image and who I was. Now I can't even imagine being with anyone but a man; I will always be a submissive bottom. And besides, how could a girl want to be with me after everything I've done and that's been done to me? I'll stick with guys, guys like Blake.

"So what if I am?" I snap, finding that my dislike for this man has increased tremendously since our meeting.

He chuckles at me, making me feel even more pissed.

"You're a feisty little thing when you get mad, aren't you?" He says teasingly, grinning like an idiot.

"Fuck you," I snarl, which just makes his chuckling turn into a full out laugh. Ugh, I hate this guy!

We sit in silence for a moment, me quietly steaming with my arms crossed over my chest and him watching me again with that weird look. Finally he scoots his seat back and tilts his steering wheel up to give me room.

"Well, come on, we don't have all night," he says, patting his crotch.

I glare at him, but position myself in the middle seat so that I'm kneeling beside him. I undo his belt and open his pants, wondering how many fucking times in my life I've done these actions for someone else. His cock is rock hard, straining against his boxers and I pull it out, vaguely thinking that he's bigger than Blake. He hisses when my cold hands touch his warm skin and I get a small sense of satisfaction in his momentary discomfort.

I gaze down at his impressive size for a moment, feeling like a complete whore, and wondering what Blake would think if he saw what I was doing, but then I close my eyes and take him into my mouth where so many dicks have been before. He groans in pleasure, leaning his head back on the seat as I begin to bob my head up and down, taking him into the back of my throat with ease.

"Shit," he sighs, his big hands snaking into my hair, making me tense slightly, because I expect to be forced down until I gag and choke. But he just slides his fingers through the thick strands; it sort of feels good in a weird way.

I try to give the best blow job I've ever given, just so he'll come faster, but he still takes a long time, so long that my jaw is starting to ache. My legs are starting to cramp from my position and my back is hurting, but I don't stop, having done that one too many times and had to face the consequences, which usually involved being choked with the cock I stopped sucking.

"Damn, kid, it's like you don't have a gag reflex," he groans, starting to pant, finally showing signs that he's close. If my mouth wasn't preoccupied I would inform him that, yes, I very much do have a gag reflex, but, you know- practice makes perfect.

Finally, after twenty or thirty minutes he orgasms. I swallow his hot load and quickly pull away, moving back to my seat to lean against the door, wanting to get as far away from him as possible now, like I always feel with every other guy I do this to; except Blake of course.

I can feel the cop watching me as he fixes his pants, but I don't look over, instead choosing to stare out the window with my head pressed against the cool glass, the icy surface soothing my nerves and my clammy skin. I really wish he hadn't destroyed my cigarettes, I need one really bad now. We sit in silence for a long time, too long, with him staring at me and me trying really hard to ignore him, not wanting to have anything to do with him anymore.

Just when I'm about to say something, he finally cranks the engine and puts the car in reverse, backing out of the hidden driveway and back onto the street.

"Buckle up," he orders, looking over at me.

I do as he says, feeling strange wearing the seatbelt since I never do in Blake's truck; I figure if I die in a wreck it'll just put me out of my misery. He's watching me again and I decide I can't take it anymore. As much as I hate being there, I want to go home, or anywhere for that matter- anywhere but in this car.

"You said you would take me home," I mumble, unable to keep my voice from shaking when I look over at him.

His gaze is unnerving and it makes me wonder what he's thinking; his bright eyes look scary in the dim lighting of his dash.

He's quiet for a moment, but then chuckles lowly.

"Alright, kid. A deal's, a deal. Where to?" He asks.

I let out a sigh of relief, having really expected him to screw me over.

"Serenity Acres, off of Brookside Road," I tell him, relaxing back in the seat some as he punches in the address on his GPS device before he takes off down the dark street.

It only takes about ten minutes to get to my house from the cemetery with the way he's speeding, and I'm glad he ended up driving me because the walk home from the parking lot would have taken me over an hour. It's also really cold and already four o'clock in the morning, which would have put me at risk of getting caught sneaking in by Dad. I still can't believe Blake left me...

"This is it," I tell him, pointing to the house, and he slows to a stop in front of the place I'm forced to call home.

The outside of our house is actually pretty nice, as is the inside, since Dad expects me to do chores all the time; I do everything from laundry to mowing and all the stuff in between. It looks like a normal home. But what goes on inside this house is the complete opposite of its appearance; it's like a book with a pretty cover, but a really shitty story hidden within the pages.

"Thanks," I say, already unbuckled and opening the door before he even comes to a complete stop, ready to get the hell away from this guy.

"No problem, Sky. Thank you," he says with a sly smile. Asshole.

I jump out of the car, the cold air hitting me and taking my breath away slightly. Right before I shut the door he calls out to me.

"You stay out of trouble, kid. Wouldn't want to see a cutie like you end up hurt."

I slam the door in his face and start up my driveway with my hands shoved deep in my pockets, beyond thankful that I managed to get out of that predicament without having to wake my father up. I definitely have a few select words I'm going to say to Blake tomorrow at school, most of them bad enough to make a nun faint. This is all his fault... But I know for certain that I won't stay mad at him; as soon as he apologizes and kisses me I'll forgive him. I'm so pathetic.

I hear the cop pull away from the curb before I reach the porch and I breathe a sigh of relief. Some cop he is, letting me off for a measly blow job. But it worked out in my favor so I guess I shouldn't be complaining. I'm so fucking lucky.

I walk up the steps quietly and as I pull out the spare key from under the welcome mat I suddenly realize with heart breaking dismay that he never gave me back my pocket knife. Fucking asshole! I also realize he never told me his name. I don't remember seeing a name tag or anything either, but I'm also wasted, so that doesn't mean shit; I don't remember a lot of things when I'm drunk. I almost wish I did know it though so I could report him tomorrow and tell his captain what an asshole he is and that he stole from me and maybe get the knife back. But then he would probably come arrest me like he should have from the beginning. I'll probably never get it back, but I guess that's my fault for drinking in the first place; I deserve to be punished.

I just hope I never see that guy again, he made me feel weird. And I have a bad feeling that if we did ever meet again I wouldn't get off so lucky...

*

 _Reviews are greatly appreciated, very motivating, and keep me writing!_

_Let me know what you think and thanks for your support! :)_


	3. Abused

I open the door as quietly as possible so I won't wake dad. I make sure to slip the key back under the mat since I don't carry one on me. I have a bad habit of losing stuff that's in my pockets, probably because I take my pants off in so many random places. I'm such a fucking whore; I make myself sick sometimes.

I close the door as quietly as I opened it and begin to tiptoe my way through the foyer and into the dark living room. The house is quiet, no sounds but the clicking coming from the clock in the kitchen and the hum of the heater, and I relax a little bit, thankful I didn't get caught; that would be the last thing I needed tonight.

"Skylar."

His voice suddenly comes from the darkness and I freeze, feeling as if my heart just dropped into my stomach. The lamp by his lazy boy clicks on, illuminating his form sitting in the big chair.

"Dad..." I whisper in alarm, suddenly feeling very cold. Why the hell is he up!? He hardly ever wakes up in the middle of the night after he passes out, and I know for a fact he was passed out, because he passed out on top of me around midnight; I barely managed to get out from under him he was so comatose.

He stands up slowly and begins to walk towards me. I have the sudden urge to run, but I know from experience that running from him just makes everything worse; I stopped doing that when I was about seven years old, after he snapped my arm as punishment.

I can tell he's mad and that I'm in deep shit. One of his many rules is to not leave the house after ten at night. It may seem like he's trying to be a good, responsible father, wanting me to stay off the streets and keep me safe, but that's a lie. He'll say that's the reason for this rule, but the real reason is because he wants me home in case he gets the urge to play with his toy. Which is most likely the reason he's up right now. And I wasn't here. Shit.

He stops in front of me and stares down at me, standing so close I can feel the heat from his body. I take a careful step back so his familiar smell of whiskey and menthols doesn't suffocate me.

"How many fucking times have I told you not to leave the house after ten o'clock, boy?" His quiet, resonate voice rumbles my chest, making me tremble because I can tell he's pissed. He always talks softly when he's really mad, the more quiet the more angry; it's scarier than his yelling.

I look down at my feet, feeling so small, like always. He suddenly slaps me hard enough to make me taste blood and then immediately grabs my jaw in a bruising grip. His fingers dig into my jaw bone painfully and he forces my head up to look at my face. I have trouble looking into his dark, bloodshot eyes and seeing the hate he has for me; it hurts knowing that my own father can't stand me half the time I'm around. And it's worse the other times when he loves me too much; I'd rather him beat me than fuck me...

He squeezes hard, making me whimper in pain and tears spring to my eyes.

"Dad, please!" I whine, trying to pull away from him vainly.

At my struggling his big hand just grips my face even harder, so I stop. He always wins, I don't know why I even try. He leans close to my face, his glare darkening his handsome features.

"Where were you?" He growls, his hot breath making me cringe.

"I stepped outside to get some air," I whisper, closing my eyes so I don't have to look at his anger. I really fucked up.

"Look at me Skylar," he orders sharply and I grudgingly obey. "It took you four hours to 'get some air'?" He asks mockingly.

I feel my eyes widen at his words. Shit. Blake's truck must have woke him up when he picked me up, so that means he's had four hours to sit here and steam. I'm so fucked.

I stare up at him, not sure what to do except prepare for the inevitable pain. He's in between being sober and drunk, so there's no telling what he'll do.

His glare suddenly darkens.

"Are you drunk?" He hisses, pulling away from me to hold me at arm's length as if he's disgusted by me. "You reek of vodka."

I shake my head the best I can, knowing my lie is blatantly obvious, but not wanting to get in more trouble than I already am. My father is a hypocrite. He says it's wrong for me to drink and smoke because I'm so young, even though he started drinking about the same age as me. It's not because he's worried about my well being or anything like that, it's because he's afraid the school or neighbors will call social services on him or something. He's always out to protect himself, he could care less about my health.

"You're a fucking little liar," he snarls, then suddenly shoves me backwards.

I manage to stumble back and land on my bottom, instead of landing on my back and smacking my head on the floor. He looms over me, looking down at me as if he's thinking of how he wants to punish me this time. For the first time tonight I wish I was more drunk so I wouldn't feel the pain that I know is coming.

After a few tense moments, he walks away. I watch him walk down the hall to his bedroom, his footsteps loud on the hardwood floor, and I know what he will come out with, this scene being all too familiar. Like I expected, he emerges seconds later with his belt: the big, thick one I have feared my whole life. He advances on me and I stay still, dreading the pain, but ready to accept my punishment; I deserve it, I know the rules and I broke them.

He grabs my arm, snatching me up with a bruising grip as if I weigh nothing, and drags me into my room. I land on the floor heavily when he drops me, then he starts yanking my clothes off. I don't fight him even though I want to, knowing there's no point. It would just make things worse; this has happened so many times before. When he's stripped me completely, he tosses me onto my bed like I'm a rag doll, face down. I bury my face in my pillow, wrapping my arms around it tightly, waiting for the first blow.

I don't have to wait long, but tonight it's worse than usual. He brings the leather down hard and then I feel the metal buckle tear into my skin. I scream, unable to stop myself from curling up in a little ball to try to protect myself. His big hand is suddenly on my thin thigh, yanking my leg down to straighten my body out and hold me down so he can get to my back, then he hits me a second time. He lays into me, striking me over and over. I sob pitifully, clutching my pillow so tightly that my arms start to ache, my pathetic wails of misery muffled into the fluff.

Finally, I hear the belt clatter to the floor and he releases my leg. His hand is suddenly in my hair and he jerks my head back painfully, making me cry out. He leans close to my face, his heavy breathing from his exertion hot on my cheek.

"I'm sick and fucking tired of you disobeying me Skylar," he growls in my ear, "You're not leaving this fucking house at night anymore, even if I have to tie you to your god damn bed. Do you understand me?"

"Yes sir," I whisper hoarsely, knowing for a fact that I will be tied to my bed, or his bed, at night from now on.

He drops my head and stomps out of the room, slamming my door shut behind him. I curl up into a trembling, pathetic little ball and cry myself to sleep, thinking about how much I wish I was in Blake's arms instead of here.

XxXxX

The sound of my door opening wakes me from my light, pain filled sleep. Early morning light illuminates my bedroom enough for me to know it's about six o'clock; I've only been asleep for less than two hours. For a second I'm confused as to what's going on, but then I feel him climbing into bed with me. I can smell the overwhelmingly sharp scent of whiskey on his breath as he pulls me towards him and presses me against his bare chest, trapping my arms between us so I can't try to push him away. His hands slide down my back and I whimper in pain as his fingers sting the numerous gashes on my skin.

"Shhh..." He whispers, nuzzling my neck, his deep voice rumbling my chest. "I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean to beat you so bad. You just made me so fucking angry. You know it worries me when you leave the house at night. I want my boy right here, so I know he's safe."

I ignore his words, their fake sincerity meaning nothing to me. He always apologizes for beating me once he's good and drunk, but he doesn't mean it. I just want him to hurry up so I can go back to sleep, I'm so tired.

His mouth comes down on mine, hard and demanding, and I'm reminded of Blake's kiss from earlier. I wish it was his mouth instead of dad's. I lay still and passive, thankful that he doesn't expect me to respond to his affections; he usually doesn't care what I do, as long as he can use me to his liking. The kiss lasts only seconds and then he's rolling me onto my back and settling himself between my legs. I hear the snap of the small bottle of lube he always brings into my room with him, then his lubed up fingers press into me; not to prepare me, just to slick me enough for him to get inside. I groan in discomfort, but then he yanks his fingers out and suddenly pushes his cock inside of me without warning, making me cry out, more from surprise than pain. I keep my eyes closed the whole time, trying hard not to focus on what's being done to my body, just like I do every time.

I start to think about Blake, but all I can see in my hazy mind is his truck leaving me behind, and I find myself wishing I had never went out with him. Normally when I'm punished for sneaking out to see him, I don't care; it's worth it just so I can feel his hands on my body and taste his mouth on mine. But tonight I was cruelly reminded of what I really am to him: nothing. Just like I am to everyone. I'm only here so I can be used. I am nothing.

The tears I cry for myself are silent, not worth enough to be heard by anyone's ears. I turn my head into my pillow and wait patiently, thinking of nothing but how much the gashes on my back are hurting from him rocking me into the mattress so hard.

Finally he's done with me and he climbs out of my bed, never staying with me in my room longer than it takes to fuck me, which I'm thankful for. I weakly pull the covers back up over my shivering frame and wrap them around me tightly for warmth and comfort, feeling so utterly alone in this cruel world.

I try to ignore all of the pains in my back and ass, and the feeling of his cum dripping down my thighs. I don't have to suffer long though, because I drift off to sleep a few minutes later, slipping into a strange distorted dream about that cop...


	4. Confused

The sound of the front door slamming shut startles me awake. I look up at my alarm clock and see that it's a little past eight. Dad's off to work like a responsible adult. I've never understood how he manages to keep his job at the plant since he goes in drunk all the time, I guess they don't care. I lay still, staring ahead blankly as I listen to his car crank and back down the driveway. I feel sort of bad that I made him stay up late, I'm sure he's tired; I'll probably hear all about that tonight.

I glance back up at the clock and debate on going to school since I'm already late, tired, hung-over, and hurting really bad, but I decide I might as well go so I don't have to see dad when he comes home for lunch; he gets mad when I skip school anyways and I don't want to risk another beating. Besides, I need to talk to Blake.

I uncurl from the covers and climb out of bed, wincing and gasping at the pain in my back. I clutch my pounding head and moan, regretting drinking so much like I always do. After a few seconds of wallowing in self pity I reach over to my bedside table and open the secret compartment in the drawer that dad doesn't know about. I pull out a tiny bag of weed and make myself a small joint. I normally don't smoke in the mornings unless I had a really bad night the night before. Last night was one of the worst I've had in a while. I lay back down, curling in on myself as I light up, wanting to make myself so small that I just disappear.

I let my mind wander as I smoke, enjoying the soothing feeling it gives me. I really don't smoke pot a lot, but I've found that it helps me deal with the pains I always have, so I make sure to keep some in my room. It comes in handy on mornings that I wake up barely able to move from a particularly horrible beating. I make sure I only do it when dad's not home though; he would kill me if he found out that I smoke it.

The guy I get it from, Mitch, is a neighbor I grew up across the street from who moved out on his own a couple years ago to live in an apartment in town. He's six years older than me and I always looked at him sort of like a big brother, which is why I tried the stuff in the first place. He's one of the few people I trust in the world, probably the only person I would ever go to for help with my life, since he knows about my dad beating me.

I think all of the neighbors know that dad abuses me because I used to scream my head off when he would beat me when I was little, but I guess most of them just ignored the obvious fact that a child was being tortured in the house next to them. Dad always beat me harder when I screamed, but it took me a long time to figure that out; I was a little preoccupied with pain to comprehend anything during his fits of rage, especially when I was younger. I finally learned to keep my mouth shut after he almost killed me one day by choking the shit out of me for catching the attention of a neighbor who called the cops on him. He talked himself out of getting arrested though, smooth talking his way out of it like he does everything. That's why he's never been stopped.

While I'm smoking, something catches my eye on the wall my bed is against and I look over at the droplets of dried blood that is splattered on the white wall. My blood. I quickly look away, the sight making me feel sick and making my back hurt worse than it already does. His punishments seem to be getting worse and worse; he's seriously going to end up killing me one day.

The joint only lasts a few hits, but I feel a lot better now, so I get up to get a shower. Since my sheets are bloody and stained with dried cum, I go ahead and strip the mattress to take them and throw them into the washing machine. Might as well do it before dad gets home and gets pissed that I ruined something he bought with his "hard earned" money.

I go into the bathroom after I'm done and go piss, then climb into the shower, gritting my teeth against the stinging pain in my back. I'm glad I decided to smoke since I know the pain would be twice as bad if I hadn't. The water pooling around my feet is a sickly color pink, but it slowly begins to run clear as all of the blood is washed away. I quickly wash, staying in only as long as I can tolerate the water beating down on my gashes.

I finish, dry off carefully, and then take the chance to examine my wounds in the mirror, my normal morning routine. I have a bruise on my cheek, finger print bruises on my jaw, and hand print bruises on my arms and thigh, but that's nothing new; I always have some kind of bruise on my body. The welts on my back are red and starting to bruise and the cuts aren't too deep, but they'll probably bleed some more from my shirt rubbing them. I'm going to be miserable all day, but it's my own fault. I should have learned by now not to sneak out, I've definitely been beaten for it enough times to know better. And now I'll be tied to the bed when I sleep, leaving me uncomfortable and even more vulnerable to dad all night long. Great.

I brush my teeth and run my fingers through my unruly, wet hair, not bothering to brush it since it does what it wants no matter what I do to it. Sometimes I wish I could be perfect like Blake, he makes life seem so easy, but I guess it is for him; he's handed everything on a silver platter and doesn't have to worry about a father who treats him like shit. He's so lucky.

When I'm done in the bathroom, I go to my bedroom and find some clothes to wear, deciding on my usual attire of a white long sleeve shirt, a black t-shirt over that, baggy jeans, and of course my hoodie. I pull on my old black converse shoes and then go back to my dresser to look for the pack of cigarettes I hid in it last week, my back-up pack I like to keep incase dad catches me with one and throws it away or I lose one. Which I usually don't, that's one thing I do manage to keep in my pockets- that and my alcohol of course. I'm so pathetic.

Instead of the box, I find a folded piece of paper. Confused, I open it and see my father's neat hand writing: "If I find another pack, you'll find out how hard it is to smoke with broken fingers." Shit. I crumple up the paper and throw it across the room angrily, wanting to cry. I know I shouldn't do what I do to get smokes and alcohol, but I feel like I work hard to earn those things, and it hurts when people take them away. Just like that cop did.

Thinking of him pisses me off even more and makes me think about Blake, making a horrible mixture of anger and sadness leave a bad taste in my mouth. I really need a cigarette, it helps me stay calm when I feel like this, I have trouble functioning without them. I'm going to have to get some before I go to school; even if it is out of the way, it'll be worth it.

I walk over to my closet and dig in all the junk to find the ragged cardboard box that I know dad hasn't touched because it looks inconspicuous. I lift out the stack of magazines that I've never even looked through and pull out my most recent bottle of vodka, one that Blake got me last week that's almost gone. I take a few gulps while I dig around for another water bottle in all of the shit on my floor, loving that burning sensation as it goes down, but hating the feeling of it settling into my empty stomach because it reminds me that I need to eat. I finally find one and fill it all the way up, looking sadly at the small amount left in the big glass bottle and wondering what I'll have to do to get some more since Blake can't get me any from his brother. I'd much rather do stuff with Blake than a stranger, but I'll do what I have to do to get booze and smokes.

After taking a few more sips I hide my secret stash and then find my book bag, which I don't even know why I bother taking, I only do enough in school to barely scrape by. It's hard to have motivation to do well in anything when the only person who is supposed to care doesn't give a shit.

I leave my room and head for the front door, dragging my book bag with me, not even bothering to look for something to eat for breakfast since dad only buys enough food for his lunches and then TV dinners for dinner. If I'm good I usually get to eat dinner in the evenings, but I know better than to eat anything else in the house without permission.

The biting early winter air that assaults me when I step out of the warm house makes me regret even getting out of bed, especially since the wind is blowing today and it goes right through my jacket. I try to ignore it, knowing I'll feel warmer the more I drink. I carefully put my back pack on, wincing and cursing at the pressure on the gashes, but dealing with the pain as usual. I've learned in life it's either deal with it or give up, and I never have had the guts to give up yet, I haven't even tried. I can't bring myself to cause my body more pain from stuff like cutting my wrists or something, I'd rather just slowly drink myself to death- it is definitely less painful.

I lock the door and tuck the key back under the mat, then start my trek to the convenience store/ diner up the road, hunched against the cold, my hands shoved deep in my pockets, my bottle and the wind the only thing keeping me company.

It takes ten minutes to get to my normal destination for obtaining my sinful pleasures and a quick glance through the parking lot tells me that the person I was hoping would still be here this morning is, like usual. I walk into the store, the little bell above the door dinging and bringing myself unwanted attention from the patrons of the shop, especially Mrs. Jones, the cashier, who thinks I'm a "heathen" and a "menace". I ignore their looks and head to the diner area where I can see him sitting, drinking his coffee, reading the paper, and eating his big breakfast like always.

His name is John and he's in his early forties. He works the night shift at the plant my father works at and then comes here every morning before going home to his young wife. He's a pervert who secretly likes little boys, but surprisingly treats me better than my dad does. He's also quick to give me some cash or buy me anything I ask for with a simple hand job or a rare blow job in his car. He's one of the few people in my life that I'm actually happy to see, even though I know it's so fucked up and wrong.

I carefully slide into the booth across the table from him and he looks up at the sound. He smiles a toothy grin under his big mustache flecked with scrambled eggs and grits when he sees it's me.

"Well, look who it is! Haven't seen you in a while, sweet cheeks. I thought you forgot about ole me," he says in his thick country accent before shoveling another bite of eggs into his big mouth.

I give him a small smile and shrug. It's only been a week since I saw him last, but I guess that seems long to him. He watches me for a moment before grabbing a piece of toast off his plate that's smothered in butter and strawberry jelly and handing it to me.

I mumble a quiet thank you and accept the food gratefully, unable to stop myself from quickly taking a huge bite and sighing in relief from finally getting something in my empty stomach; it's been over twenty four hours since I've had anything to eat.

John chuckles and watches me chew, his hungry eyes more interested in my mouth than the food that's in it; I know exactly what he'll want me to do for smokes this morning. His eyes move to trace my face and I know what he's looking at. He reaches across the table and gently brushes his thick fingers over my cheek and jaw. I let him, only because he's never hurt me in the two years that I've known him, but I have to remind myself over and over not to flinch; it's harder to do than it sounds.

"Your daddy been beatin' you again, son?" He asks quietly in a truly caring voice, a tone that I rarely hear from anyone.

I give him an uncaring shrug, taking another big bite. John knows my father personally and doesn't seem to think too highly of him, even though my dad is very charismatic and has a way of making anyone like him; I guess John sees through his good looks and smooth words to see the monster hiding underneath.

"It was my fault. I got caught sneaking out again," I tell him around my mouthful of toast, hoping he'll drop it and stop asking questions; I hate when people pry.

He shakes his head with a sigh and chuckles softly, smiling at me.

"Damn you're cute, kid," he mutters, continuing with his meal.

We sit in silence as he finishes and I gladly take the carton of milk he offers me after I'm done with my toast. When he's finished I follow him out to his car, my intentions not needed to be spoken aloud.

A few minutes and a mouthful of cum later, he leaves me to go back in the store. I get out of the car and lean against it, sipping my "water" slowly, washing the salty bitterness down. I wonder what time it is and try to figure out which classes I've missed so far this morning. I think it's only second period now, so I've only missed English and history, both of which I'm failing. I wonder if Blake will even be there after getting the shit beat out of him, but I really hope he is. If he's not I'll probably just skip the rest of the day and go home- I feel like total shit.

John returns and pulls out two packs of my favorite, a new lighter, and a ten dollar bill from his pants pocket, surprising me with his generosity this morning.

"Get yourself something to eat today, kiddo," he says with a smile when he hands it all to me, reaching out to ruffle my hair.

I smile back and thank him, then start in the direction of school, back the way I came, quickly opening one of the boxes and pulling out a much needed nicotine stick.

"Wait, Sky," John calls to me as I'm walking and shoving my earnings in my pockets.

I pause and turn back to him, a cigarette stuck in the corner of my lips.

"Yes sir?"

"You headin' to school?" He asks.

I nod.

"Hop in, I'll give you a ride. It's too cold for you to be walkin', especially with you bein' nothin' but skin and bones," he says, climbing into the driver's seat.

I gladly get back in the warm car and make sure to thank him again. He nods, grumbling something under his breath about people needing to take better care of their kids.

We ride in comfortable silence, the only sound being the old country music on the radio, both of us staring straight ahead and ignoring the other as if he wasn't there. That's what I like most about John: we use each other, and that's that, no strings attached. He lets me light up in his car even though I know he doesn't smoke, which is awesome because I really need one to calm my nerves before I confront Blake. I have a feeling my anger isn't going to last long enough to even say anything though, it'll probably fade as soon as I see the bruises on his handsome face.

XxXxX

It takes less than ten minutes to get to the school, when it would have taken me over thirty minutes to walk, and I find myself grateful for another ride from a man I just sucked off. I might as well just drop out of school and become a prostitute because that definitely seems to be the direction I'm heading. He drops me off out front and tells me he'll see me again soon with a wink, which makes me grin. I definitely like John the best out of all the guys I use for stuff, he makes me feel like more than just the piece of trash that I am.

The bell for third period rings as I'm walking up the front steps and I sigh in relief, glad I can sneak in without having to go to the office and get a tardy slip. I walk through the crowded hallways, heading for Blake's locker, hoping he'll be there so I can catch him before his next class; I just want to get this over with.

I'm not disappointed. He's standing with his back to me, wearing his fancy letterman jacket that has been draped over my shoulders multiple times to keep me warm after we've just fucked in his truck, which makes me feel special because he doesn't even let Brittany wear it. And speaking of her, she's standing in front of him and I can already hear her shrill voice yelling even from where I'm walking halfway down the hall. She's drawing attention from other students and I can make out her fast, jumbled words as I get closer to the couple.

"-and that's not all that could have happened Blake! You could have been expelled! That would have ruined everything! You would have screwed my chances at becoming prom queen and made me a laughing stock of the whole school! Not to mention everyone would have started rumors about me being pregnant and horrible stuff like that! I just can't believe you would risk so much just for a stupid fight that you didn't even win! I'm so embarrassed!"

"Brittany, please baby-" I hear Blake say and I hate that he's trying to reason with her; she's such a bitch.

She has her arms crossed under her well endowed chest, her nose upturned at her boyfriend, and a pout to her lip, looking like the prima donna she is. Her expression suddenly changes when she sees me and it turns into pure hate. She seems to sprout fangs and claws as she advances on me, her blonde hair bouncing angrily to match her emotions.

I freeze, wondering why the hell she's coming at me like that when she hardly even acknowledges my presence most of the time I'm around. She stops in front of me and glares down at me with flames in her blue eyes; she's a few inches taller than me, and even taller with the heels she has on today. I briefly wonder if Blake told her about us, a small flutter of excitement in my chest, but my hope is quickly crushed by her seething words.

"You! How could you do that to your own cousin!? Do you know what could have happened to Blake if he had gotten caught!? He could have been arrested! And expelled! And lost his scholarship! And even been denied entrance to the university! Not to mention all of the rumors that would have been spread about us! You're sooo lucky nothing happened! The whole school would have hated you!..."

She continues yelling at me and I stare at her, dumbfounded and utterly confused, having no idea what she's talking about, but then Blake comes up behind her and grabs her shoulders to spin her around.

"Brittany, stop. I can handle my own problems. Go to the bathroom and fix your fucking make-up, you've got it all smudged from your fake tears," he growls at her.

Her manicured hand flies up to her face and she gasps softly, as if she's stunned that her perfect face is messed up. She sighs a pouty huff and her attitude disappears as she smiles up at her boyfriend.

"Okay, Blakey," she says sweetly, standing on her tiptoes to give him a chaste kiss, acting as if she wasn't just screaming at him a few seconds ago, "I'll see you at lunch, pookey." She shoots a mean glare at me one last time, then bounces off, her perfectly styled hair bouncing and her skirt so short it almost shows off her ass cheeks. Her friends who were hovering around, chattering like hens, and look almost identical to her, follow along like puppies following their mother. A bitch with her puppies. Ha.

I watch her go with relief, confused as to what she was talking about, but glad she's gone; I really don't like her and she treats me like shit, so I assume she doesn't like me, no matter what Blake says.

I look up at him hesitantly to see the damage to his face, but he actually doesn't look that bad. He has a black eye, a split lip, and a bruise on his jaw, but other than that he's fine. Hell, I've come to school looking much worse just for pissing dad off over something stupid. My urge to be mad at him has completely evaporated just like I thought it would after listening to Brittany fuss at him; I don't want to be like her in any way. Besides, the whole thing of him leaving me was my fault in the first place. If I hadn't jumped off his truck like an idiot he probably wouldn't have even left me. I give him a small smile, but the look he's giving me worries me; it's a mixture of concern and anger, and my smile immediately fades. What did I do?

He doesn't say anything and suddenly grabs my wrist to drag me down the hallway to a supply closet. He yanks the door open and shoves me inside, then follows me in, shutting the door behind him and shoving a broom into the handle so it can't be opened from the outside. For a second he stares at the door, his back turned to me, and I feel myself growing increasingly nervous. I wrack my brain for something I must have done to piss him off. Shit, what did I do!?

When he turns around his expression is still the same, but looks even darker in the dim lighting, and I feel myself shrink back with fear. He comes towards me and raises his hand, I flinch heavily, but then he just grazes his knuckles across the bruise on my jaw gently.

"You got hurt," he murmurs quietly, anger no longer in his expression, only concern and worry.

I feel myself relax: he's not mad at me, he's pissed that I got hurt last night. That makes me feel so good to know he cares enough to worry about me.

I shake my head and carefully push his hand away, smiling a small, reassuring smile while I slip my back pack off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Maybe he'll want to fuck me since he's not mad at me.

"It happened after the fight. It wasn't your fault," I tell him, deciding I'll just forget about him leaving me; it's not important anyways.

"Who hurt you?" He demands, looking angry again.

I quickly shake my head.

"No one, Blake. I just fell on my way home, okay? It's nothing," I try to explain, using my usual excuse. Blake thinks I'm the most accident prone kid in the world, which isn't a complete lie, I am a total klutz.

He looks frustrated and suddenly grabs my shoulders and shoves my back against the shelf behind me. Normally it wouldn't hurt, he didn't do it hard at all, but it presses right against some of the gashes and I cry out loudly. He immediately releases me with a soft "shit" and then stares at me with wide eyes as I gasp in pain.

Before I can stop him he quickly turns me around and lifts my jacket and shirts up, revealing my mutilated back. I jerk away from him and yank my shirt down, glaring at him, embarrassment flushing my cheeks. I've always made a point of never taking my shirt off in front of him, this is the first time he's seen my whole back, scars and everything. Why did he do that!?

He's staring at me again with wide eyes. I can't stand the look of alarm on his face and I turn to go, snatching my book bag up. I don't want to hear what he has to say about what he saw, but he grabs my arm and yanks me back to stand in front of him.

"Skylar, who is always beating you up!?" He asks heatedly, grabbing my shoulders to make me stay.

I look away and shake my head, really wishing I hadn't come to school now.

"Don't give me that bullshit!" He suddenly yells, and gives me a hard shake, startling me, "You've always got bruises and you flinch when I touch you… It's your dad isn't it? Tell me the truth!"

For some reason his correct accusation of my father, the man who hurts me every fucking day, makes me want to defend that man. I don't know why though. I guess it's because Blake doesn't get it and he never will. He's so fucking lucky...

"So what if he does!? What do you fucking care!? I'm just a piece of ass to you anyways, Blake. Why does it matter to you!?" I practically scream, throwing my back pack down angrily, shocking myself with my outburst, but unable to stop it from the emotions overwhelming me.

He looks surprised by my sudden outburst too, since I'm normally so quiet, and he has a bewildered look on his face.

"Why would you say that, Skylar?" He asks as he releases me and takes a step back, clearly upset by my words. "Do you really think that's all you are to me!? You're my friend, Sky. I thought you knew that with all the stuff I get you and everything I do for you!"

I stare up at him in disbelief. Friend...? No. His "friends" are the assholes who pick on me all the time, with Blake standing by and doing nothing to stop them. I don't know what I am to Blake, but I'm definitely not his "friend".

"You only get me that stuff because you feel bad for using me and you feel sorry for me because I never have any money," I hiss in a much softer voice, "besides, why would you leave your 'friend' drunk in a fucking parking lot, an hour away from his house, with a fucking cop!?"

I immediately regret my harsh words at the crestfallen look on his face. But before I can apologize, he speaks.

"They left you?" He asks softly.

I look up at him, slightly confused.

"You left me," I whisper back, hating the fact that I feel like I'm about to cry; I'm such a wimp.

He shakes his head and suddenly looks angry. He lets out a loud "fuck!", then turns around and punches the wall behind him hard enough to bust up his already busted knuckles. I flinch and quickly back away from him, worried the next punch might be aimed at me. He leans his head against the wall and huffs for a few minutes, while I stand as far away from him as I can, silently twisting my jacket in my hands nervously. When he turns back to me, he doesn't look so pissed and is breathing normally.

"They told me that you had left. I'm so sorry…" He says softly, stepping towards me again.

I shake my head and take another step back from him.

"I was right behind your truck, Blake. Didn't you see me?" I ask quietly, feeling so invisible.

He shakes his head sadly.

"I was out cold, Sky. I don't remember anything after Jax knocked me to the ground. Shawn and Marcus got me to my truck and drove me home. When I came to, you were the first person I asked about. I was going to go back and try to find you, but they said you had left. Then they told me about that fucking cop and said you probably ducked out as soon as you saw him. And I believed them because you were so fucking drunk. But when you didn't show up to school this morning I thought that maybe you had been arrested or something... Fuck! I was so worried about you! What happened?"

I stare at him, a flood of emotions flowing through me. So he didn't leave me after all. And he was worried about me too. That makes me so happy.

I smile a small smile and let out a relieved laugh, shaking my head.

"Nothing happened. I seriously thought you left me, Blake. I was so mad..." I say softly, grinning up at him.

He gives me a funny look and shakes his head.

"I wouldn't have done that, Sky. And you're not just a piece of ass to me, okay? It really sucks that you think that. Please don't say that again, it makes me feel like shit," he says sadly.

I duck my head, feeling super guilty that I even thought that of him, but enjoying the warm fuzzy feelings his words give me. He's so great.

"So... You did get caught by that cop?" He asks hesitantly.

I shrug, but then nod, deciding not to lie to him. He stares at me incredulously.

"How the fuck did you manage to get out of that without being arrested, Sky? You were so drunk," he says quietly, his voice amazed.

I shrug again.

"He, um, just let me off with a warning. I guess since it was my first time getting caught, you know?" I tell him, not completely lying, just leaving out a small, embarrassing detail. I never want Blake to find out what a whore I am, I think he would hate me.

He stares at me for a moment, an odd look on his face that I can't make out.

"What?" I ask quietly, feeling nervous with the way he's studying me.

"You didn't do anything to get him to let you go, did you...?" He asks softly.

I feel like my stomach does a somersault at his words. Does he know...? How though!?

"Wh-what do you mean...?" I ask, barely above a whisper, trying not to sound suspicious, but failing miserably.

He gazes at me for a long time with that strange look before he speaks.

"The guys were worried that if you did get caught that you would give us up. You know, give them our names so you can get off scot free? I told them that you weren't like that, but it just seems too good to be true for him to just give you a warning, Sky. I mean, you were really drunk..."

I feel relief flow through me at his words. He doesn't know what I did, I'm safe. Brittany's words make sense now.

I laugh nervously and shake my head, feeling rattled from his accusation.

"I just got lucky, I guess. I swear I didn't turn you guys in. I would never do that to you, Blake," I tell him with a reassuring smile, praying he'll believe me.

He sighs and shakes his head.

"I know you wouldn't, Sky, the guys are just paranoid. We're all riding on scholarships and we'd lose them if we got caught fighting. It would just fuck everything up. You understand?"

I nod and smile up at him, beyond relieved that was all he was worried about.

He sighs again and rubs his hand across the back of his neck, his expression guilty.

"I'm really sorry that you got caught, Sky. I know it's my fault that you were even there in the first place..." He says quietly, looking away from me.

I put my hand on his arm gingerly, making him look at me.

"It's okay," I tell him softly, smiling with sincerity, "it's my fault for drinking. It wouldn't have even happened if I wasn't drunk. Please don't blame yourself."

He stares down at me, another unreadable expression on his face, then he suddenly pulls me close and kisses me. It's not a hard and demanding kiss like usual though, it's almost a tender kiss, like I've seen him do with Brittany before. Except this kiss seems to have a lot more emotion in it than his kisses with that bitch. I melt into the meeting of lips and press my body against his tightly, wishing all of this actually meant something. He wraps his arms around me and shoves his tongue deep in my mouth, moaning deep in his throat like he loves the taste of me.

The kiss lasts for several wonderful minutes and I enjoy every second of it. That is until he suddenly shoves me away, slamming me into the shelf behind me with so much force that it makes some stuff fall off and knocks me to the ground. I land on the concrete floor hard, crying out in a combination of pains, mainly from the horrible agony in my back, but also from having to catch myself on my injured wrist again. For a second I just sit, stunned slightly, but then I look up at Blake hesitantly, wondering what I did to warrant the harsh treatment.

He's staring at me with an almost horrified look on his face, like something scared him. He looks away quickly and turns to the door, yanking the broom out and tossing it to the side.

"I have to get to class, Sky," he calls over his shoulder quietly, glancing back at me with that weird look. "You should too, okay?"

Then he leaves.

I stare after him, completely confused and hurting, wondering what the hell I did to make him act like that. He was acting like I had done something wrong, but for the life of me I don't know what it was. I think back to the kiss and how different it was than our normal kisses, and how much I liked it; I want him to kiss me like that again. And he seemed to like it too, at least until he acted like I had burned him. What did I do...?

I get up slowly, using the shelf to help me, wincing and gasping, tears springing to my eyes from the pain. I grab my book bag and put it on carefully, then walk out of the closet, feeling more shitty now than I did when I got to school.

I stand in the deserted hallway for a moment, debating on going to class, but I finally decide to go to the bathroom and smoke, feeling too rattled to face anyone. As I slowly walk to the boy's room, I can only think about that amazing kiss. He kissed me like he loved me, but I know that can't be true. I just wish I know what I did to make him stop. I always screw everything up...


	5. Tricked

The second floor bathroom in the science hall is hardly ever used, so teachers never check it to make sure students aren't skipping, which is why I always go there to smoke. I decide I'll just hang out in there until lunch, then I'll try to find Blake and apologize for whatever I did to upset him. I really hope he forgives me, I want him to kiss me like that again.

I make my way up the stairs slowly, every small movement making the gashes on my back sting and throb. I chug my vodka, hoping to numb the pain and slow my erratic thoughts. When I finally make it to the bathroom I'm feeling so sluggish and dizzy I can barely walk straight, the alcohol doing what it's supposed to do.

I'm concentrating so hard on trying to walk without leaning against the wall, that I don't hear the voices in the bathroom until I open the door and practically run right into a large body. I stumble back and lean on the now closed door, mumbling an apology, surprised there's even anyone in here, before I hesitantly look up.

I recognize their faces immediately, but it takes a second for their names to click in my head: Shawn, Marcus, and Derek- Blake's closest friends, typical jocks. All three of them are smoking pot, the familiar smell filling the small room even though they have the little window open. They seem more surprised to see me than I am them and they stare at me for a few seconds before their startled gazes become glares. The looks on their faces scare me. What did I do? Derek finally speaks.

"What the fuck are you doing here, you little shit?" He growls, taking a step towards me.

I flatten myself against the door out of instinct and glare back at him, trying to be brave. I'm terrified of these assholes. They're huge and mean and for some reason hate me. They've never hurt me because they don't want to piss Blake off since I'm his "cousin". But I'm not stupid and I'm not going to purposely provoke them; I've dealt with my dad for far too long to do a dumb thing like that. However, that doesn't stop my tipsy brain from spewing foolish words from my mouth.

"Same thing you dicks are doing," I answer, regretting my words immediately and fighting the urge to bolt out the door. Their glares darken at my snippy comment and they glance at each other.

"No… What the fuck are you doing at school? I went back to the lot to get my jacket last night and saw that cop take you in his car. So why the hell aren't you in jail? Your stupid little twerp ass was so fucking drunk there's no way they would have let you off without consequences," Derek snarls, stepping even closer to me.

I feel myself pale at his words. He saw me get in the cop car? Shit.

"I- I got off with a warning..." I stammer out softly, letting my eyes drop.

A big hand suddenly grabs my upper arm, yanks me away from the door, and throws me to floor roughly in the middle of the room. I manage to catch myself on my hands, but a stab of pain shoots through my left wrist again, cruelly reminding me of my fall last night. I should have never tried to warn these jerks. I probably wouldn't have been left behind if I hadn't.

One of them yanks my book bag off and tosses it to the corner. Then I'm jerked up off the floor and slammed into the wall, hard, with a fist pressing into my bony chest. I gasp at the pain of having the wounds on my back assaulted yet again, but luckily I don't scream because all of the air has left my lungs from the force of being shoved against the wall.

I look up at Shawn's glaring face, coughing as I try to breathe. Before I can catch my breath, he pulls me off the wall and slams me into it again, making my head smack against the hard tile and spots dance in my eyes.

"What did you do to get off?" He snarls close to my face.

I stare up at him, feeling so small and so dizzy.

"N-nothing," I cough out, struggling to breathe with his fist pressing on my ribs so heavily.

"You're fucking lying," Marcus says, standing on Shawn's left.

"They wouldn't have let you off that easy without you doing something," Derek growls from Shawn's right, the three of them successfully cornering me.

I shake my head, squirming and trying to wiggle out of his grasp. A sudden punch to my stomach makes me stop and attempt to double over in pain, but his other hand is still on my chest holding me still. I gasp raggedly, closing my eyes and holding my stomach because of the agony in my abdomen and the sharp burning in my lungs.

He pulls me away from the wall yet again and then slams me back into it, making my head pound and my ears ring, pushing me dangerously close to passing out.

"What did you do?" Shawn asks again, pressing so hard I can feel my rib cage bending.

I let out an embarrassing whimper.

"P-please... I didn't..." I gasp out, unable to get a complete sentence out of my mouth or even form one in my brain. That is one thing that I will never understand with bullies, like dad: how do they expect me to answer them if they don't let me breathe?

He finally releases me and I slide down the wall to sit on the floor, coughing and gasping, sucking precious oxygen into my lungs. Derek kneels down close to me and grabs the front of my jacket, yanking me close to his face.

"I swear to God, Yancy, if you told that fucking cop our names, I'm going to bash your fucking brains in. If I lose my scholarship, I don't get into college; it's the only thing I have to ride on. Did you rat us out?"

I stare up at him and shake my head quickly.

"I didn't! I swear!" I squeak out, hating how pathetic I sound.

"He's lying. He had to have done something," Marcus repeats from a few feet away.

"He probably sucked the guy's dick," Shawn says.

I realize a second too late that he was joking, but I can't stop my eyes from widening slightly at his words. Derek releases me with a shove and stands up, looking down at me with a mixture of disgust and laughter in his eyes.

"He fucking did," he says, with a harsh laugh.

Marcus and Shawn look at him and then down at me.

"No fucking way," Shawn says.

"He totally did, look at his face. He's a fucking little faggot. I knew it!" Derek exclaims, laughing.

"Holy shit. Jason was right! You remember when he said he saw him getting out of some guy's car last week at a gas station and shoving money in his pocket? Jason was telling the truth! Yancy's a fucking whore!" Marcus says excitedly.

Shit! I stare up at them in dismay, shaking my head fervently. Their laughter echoes off the tiled walls loudly, mocking me.

"So does Blake know his cousin's a little faggot whore?" Derek asks, kneeling down in front of me again and grabbing my jacket, but directing his question at the other two.

I want to deny what they're saying, but I panic and grab his arms, tears threatening to pour down my cheeks.

"No! Please don't tell him!" I beg, feeling sick to my stomach, "I'll do anything! Just please don't tell Blake!"

They laugh at my plea and Derek shoves me away, making me hit the wall again. The tears I was trying so hard to hold back spill down from embarrassment, which just makes them laugh even harder.

"Awe, you made him cwy Derwek," Shawn says in a fake baby voice, getting another bout of laughter from the other two.

"So, Skylar, do you suck guy's dicks for fun or just when you need something?" Derek asks, smirking as he leans over me.

I shake my head, looking away, feeling so ashamed by their words.

"I wonder what Blake's going to say when he finds out his precious little cousin is a cock sucking whore. Think he'll beat the shit out of him?" Derek asks with a malicious smile, looking up at his friends.

"Please..." I whisper, wanting to just disappear, "Please don't tell him. I'll do anything you want. Anything. Please..."

"Anything, huh?" Derek says, leering at me.

I nod, looking up at him through my tears.

"You'd even suck my dick?" He asks quietly, leaning close to me.

I wince at his words and look away, but nod slowly.

"If you promise not to tell him," I whisper, feeling sick to my stomach, but willing to do anything just so they won't tell Blake.

He straightens, looking down at me, his eyes shining with cruel amusement.

"Okay, Yancy. You give me a blow job and I won't tell Blake. Let's see what that cute little mouth of yours can do," he says, smirking.

I stare up at him, feeling like a total slut, but then reach up with shaking hands to undo his pants. I can feel the other guy's eyes on me and hear their soft chuckling as I pull Derek's still soft cock out. I run my tongue across my dry lips and then lick the tip, swirling my tongue around his head in a way that I know makes every guy hard. He gasps and immediately gets an erection. Then I close my eyes and take him into my mouth, trying to pretend I'm anywhere else but here. I suck him off quickly, struggling to ignore Shawn and Marcus' cruel taunts and Derek's quiet moans.

Suddenly, I hear the distinct click sound of a camera come from above me. Before I can react he pulls out of my mouth and cums on my face. I look up in confusion, feeling his semen begin to slide from my chin and lips to the floor, and I see Derek's cell phone pointing down at me.

"Smile for the camera, Sky," he says with a small laugh as he clicks another picture of me with cum on my face.

I stay kneeling on the floor, staring up at him in horror, wondering how I could possibly be so stupid to trust them. I was just so afraid Blake would find out. But now they have proof. I'm such an idiot!

Derek slips his phone back in his pocket and zips his pants up, watching me and chuckling.

"Damn, Yancy. I have to admit, you sure know what you're doing. You must have been sucking cocks for years to be that good," he says slyly, patting my cheek roughly.

I flinch away from his touch and his words, feeling sick because they're true.

"You lied..." I say barely above a whisper, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks, which just makes them laugh again.

"No, I'm keeping my word, Skylar: I won't tell Blake. But I didn't say I wouldn't tell the whole school. Blake can find out the hard way when he sees your pretty picture with a cock in your mouth and cum on your bitch face after I send this to every person in my contacts list," Derek says with an evil smirk.

"I can't fucking believe he did that so willingly," Marcus says with disbelief in his voice.

"He's such a little slut," Shawn jeers.

"Yeah. A great little cock sucking whore," Derek says looming over me.

I gaze up at him, feeling like an ant under a human's shoe. He shoves me hard and I land on my back, hitting my head on the floor, not even bothering to cry out even though it hurts really bad. He grabs a handful of paper towels and throws them at me.

"Clean yourself up, faggot," he says before stepping over me and following his friends out the door, all three of them laughing and joking about me.

I stare up at the ceiling for a really long time, probably about thirty minutes, feeling numb and empty. I lay on the cold floor until I hear the lunch bell ring, then I finally get up. I go to the sink, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror, knowing that if I see the cum on my face I'll get sick. I wet a paper towel and scrub the dried jizz off my chin and lips, then look up at the reflection of the pathetic piece of shit in the mirror. I hate the boy looking back at me.

I punch the mirror as hard as I can, somehow shattering the glass with my weak fist and slicing my knuckles in several spots. I stare at the bleeding cuts, watching the blood drip to the floor in big drops. I let it flow, hoping that maybe I cut a vein and I'll bleed to death before I have to face what I did.

I grab my book bag and leave the bathroom, pulling out my water bottle and gulping the liquid down in burning mouthfuls as I walk through the halls with my head down. I try to ignore the feeling of everyone's eyes on me, hoping that it's just my imagination, but having a bad feeling that it's not.

I leave the main building, not even sure where I'm going until I realize I'm walking to the old, deserted bleachers where I go to smoke pot. I throw myself to the ground when I get to my usual spot in the dark shadows and lean against the wall, pulling my legs up to my chest and wrapping my arms around my shins. Then I bury my face in my knees and I cry, sobbing for a long time, hating those stupid assholes, hating my dad, hating the world, but most of all, hating myself.


	6. Ashamed

An hour later my tears have finally dried up and my sniffling has stopped. I have my head leaned back against the wall, with my legs still tucked up to my chest, and a cigarette between my lips, watching the smoke slowly rise into the cold air. My bottle of vodka is completely empty, every drop swallowed so that I can't feel the nauseating shame set deep in my stomach. I'm so drunk I don't even feel the chill of the concrete my back is pressed against or the pain of the glass shards embedded in my still bleeding knuckles. If I am bleeding to death, this sure is a good way to die- I feel nothing.

All I can think about is how much of a whore I am and how I never even deserved to be near Blake, let alone touch him. I make myself sick. I don't deserve to even think about him, I'm so disgusting. But his handsome image stays in my mind and I can't get him out. He's always there, making me feel like dirt and making me wish I didn't have these stupid feelings for him. It hurts to think about him. He's going to hate me now...

I know this all my fault, if I wasn't so stupid and slutty this never would have happened in the first place. I only have myself to blame. But for some reason every time I close my eyes, all I can see is my father on top of me and all I can think about is the pain of that first horrible time he raped me. I feel his heavy body pressing me into my bed, a place I was supposed to feel safe and secure in, but now can barely stand to sleep in. I feel his big hand covering my mouth so my screams couldn't be heard by anyone, making it hard to breathe. I feel the agony of when he pushed his big cock into my small, virgin body and ripped my sensitive insides so bad that I bled for days and could barely walk. And I remember his harsh, whispered words that confused my ten year old brain and stays in my head to this day: "This is what you're here for Sky. This is all you're good for, baby. To make Daddy feel good. That's a good boy."

What I'm here for... What I'm good for... A good boy. No, I'm not a good boy. I'm a faggot whore... Just a hole to fuck. That's all I really am...

The crunching sound of footsteps distracts me from my hazy, fucked up thoughts and I roll my head to the side to look at my approacher. If I wasn't completely smashed I would probably piss myself in fear, because the five huge guys coming towards me have malicious smirks on their faces and their eyes are glinting in evil amusement. My little hiding spot is totally hidden from view of the school and I'm curious as to how they found me, but I don't dwell on that question for long. They surround me and gaze down at me, grinning with feral looks on their faces, looking at me like I'm their next meal. But instead of feeling scared, I just feel sort of curious to see what's about to happen; I'm sure it's nothing I haven't had to suffer through before.

I blink up at them, trying to focus on the guy standing directly in front of me, who looks really familiar, but I can't place his name, especially since his image is swaying back and forth so dizzily. None of them say anything, they just stare down at me for a while. So I bring my cigarette back up to my lips and take a slow drag until the jerk at my feet reaches down and snatches it from my fingers, taking a few puffs himself before dropping it to the ground at the toes of my shoes and grinding it into the gravel. I watch with mild interest as his grunge boot twists the small pebbles, crunching them together to make a sickening sound. His deep voice suddenly draws my attention back up to his face.

"So you're Blake's little faggot cousin, huh?" He asks, leaning down towards me with a crooked smirk, reminding me too much of my father.

I roll my eyes and look away from him, deciding to ignore them; maybe they'll go away if I do. But then a hand is gripped in the front of my jacket and I'm yanked up to my feet and slammed against the wall harshly. I vaguely wonder how many times in one day I can be slammed into things, when a fist suddenly collides with my face. My inebriated state dulls the sensation some, but not enough so that I don't feel the horrible, familiar pain of a busted nose and split lip, or so that I don't taste the coppery, metallic flavor of my own blood as it floods my mouth and nostrils. I clutch my face, feeling the warm, crimson liquid seep from between my fingers as I stare up at the older boy holding me pinned against the wall.

He snarls in my face, a vicious glare darkening his bruised features, and I suddenly recognize him when he's this close, seeing that wild look in his eyes: Jax, the guy Blake fought last night. A brief flutter of anxiety rushes through me before he pulls me off the wall and flings me to the ground. I slide across the rough gravel, cutting my hands up and scratching my arms where my sleeves ride up. I lay still where I stop, hoping that if I don't put up a fight they'll get bored and leave me alone, something I learned to do a long time ago with dad, but then I'm rolled over onto my back with a painful kick to my side and he looms in my vision.

"So, Skylar is it?" He asks, crouching down beside me, and pressing his knee into my chest, then reaching up to grab my jaw and make me look at him.

I glare at him, and choose not to respond, unwilling to talk to this asshole. His face looks a lot worse than Blake's and I get a small sense of satisfaction in knowing that he got the shit beat out of him last night; Blake would have totally won if Jax hadn't knocked him out. He chuckles at my silence and leans closer to my face.

"I was planning on challenging Blake again so I could beat the shit out of him and make his pretty face so hideous that bitch girlfriend of his wouldn't even want to look at him. But then I got a picture sent to me in a text a few minutes ago and I got a better idea. You sure look good with a cock down your throat, Skylar," he sneers, brushing his big thumb across my bottom lip roughly, then smearing my blood across my cheek.

I try to jerk away from him, but he doesn't let me go and just pushes me harder into the ground, making it hard to breathe and my back hurt from the rocks digging into my wounds. He wags his finger in my face as if scolding me.

"Nah ah ah, be a good boy and maybe we won't hurt you too bad. If you misbehave I'll have to mess up that cute little face even more, and I'm sure our audience wouldn't like that," he chides mockingly, pointing towards one of his buddies.

My eyes dart over to the guy he's gesturing to and I feel sick when I see the small video camera in his hands. Jax squeezes my jaw painfully, bringing my attention back to his smirking face.

"I thought it would be a nice treat for Blake to see his quiet little fag cousin gang raped on camera, maybe it'll knock him down a few pegs. It shouldn't be too bad for you; after all you looked like you were really enjoying that dick in your mouth in that nice picture... I wonder how loud you can scream, Skylar, think you'll be loud enough to get someone's attention? We sure are far away from the school... I can't wait to hear how you'll sound." He hisses, leaning so close I can feel his breath on my cheek.

I stare up at him in silent shock, unable to comprehend what's about to happen to me. His words hurt more than he knows because of how many times I've screamed and begged and cried while I was being raped by dad and no one ever came to my rescue. I wonder if Jax thinks he's going to be the first person to rape me...

He chuckles again darkly and then sits up, looking at his friend with the camera.

"Make sure you don't get our faces in it, just our little star's face and body. And keep filming until I say so, I think a good beating afterwards will make the little fag think twice about sucking cock again," Jax says with a laugh.

Everything happens almost too fast for my intoxicated brain to keep up with. He releases my face and stops kneeling on me, so I try to jump up and get away from them, but they grab me and I'm suddenly flipped over quickly and forced onto my hands and knees. I feel my pants and boxers yanked down to my knees and a loud sob bursts from my mouth, making them laugh; I didn't even know I was crying. In the next second I feel the familiar pressure of a cock pressed against my ass and there's another cock in front of my face, close to my lips. I turn my head away, but a big hand is gripped tightly in my hair and forces my head back, making me think of how many fucking times dad has done all of this to me. I close my eyes tight, prepared to just suffer through this like I do everything, knowing that fighting them won't do any good. I just hope they hurry up.

Jax starts to push himself in, making me cry out from the dry friction, and the other guy takes that chance to shove his dick down my throat, choking and gagging me.

"GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF HIM!"

His blessedly familiar voice silences the chuckles and jeers from the pricks surrounding me. The cocks leave my body and I'm shoved to the ground roughly.

I look back at Blake standing in the entrance of the little alcove we're in, looking more furious than I've ever seen him look. I've never been happier to see him.

"Well look who came to watch the show!" Jax taunts, zipping up his pants and walking towards Blake.

Without warning Blake steps up to him and punches Jax so hard in the face it knocks him to ground, flat on his back, making him scream in agony. The jerk rolls on the gravel, clutching his mouth and nose as blood gushes from between his fingers profusely.

Two of Jax's friends rush over to him and the other two confront Blake, but quickly back down, holding their hands up defensively when they see the terrifying anger on the blond boy's face. Then that anger is turned towards me.

I feel frozen to the spot as he stomps over to me. He grabs my arm and jerks me up to my feet and then yanks my pants up roughly. He snatches my book bag up and then drags me out from under the bleachers, his fingers digging into my arm painfully. I glance over my shoulder at the asshole who was about to rape me and take a second to enjoy watching him wallow in pain before Blake drags me out of sight.

I stay silent as I stumble along behind him, not questioning where he's taking me, and trying to imagine that his fury isn't aimed at me. I know I can't pretend it isn't though, especially with the way he keeps glancing back at me with such an intense glare that it makes my heart feel like it will stop beating at any second. He bypasses the school completely and instead drags me to the parking lot. When we get to his truck he yanks the passenger door open and throws my book bag in, then turns to me.

"Get in," he growls in a voice I've never heard from him before.

I obey without hesitation, wincing when he slams the door behind me so hard it rattles the windows. Then he's opening the driver's side door and climbing in, slamming it shut the same way, cranking his engine, and peeling out of the parking lot. He drives down the road at a dangerous speed, glaring out the front window. I lean against the door to distance myself from his rage, keeping my head down and my hands in my lap, but glancing over at him every now and then, feeling utterly terrified of him.

The truck finally stops a few minutes later and I look up hesitantly to see where we are: the cemetery the cop took me to. I feel a nauseating wave of guilt crash over me, but I manage not to puke. Blake's already out of the truck and coming around to my door. He yanks it open and pulls me out roughly, then slams it closed and shoves me against it.

For a few tense moments he glares down at me. I try to look at anything other than his piercing, bright blue eyes, feeling like I should be burning alive under his heated gaze. Then a sudden harsh slap snaps my head to the side viciously. I hold my stinging cheek and look up at him from under my bangs, silent tears beginning to drip from my eyes.

"How could you?" He hisses, stepping closer to me. "When they told me last week they saw you whoring yourself out at a gas station I didn't believe them. I told them you weren't like that; that you were a good person with morals and self respect. But then I got those fucking pictures. Do you know how that makes me feel, Skylar? It makes me feel sick. I went to the fucking bathroom and puked because of you. Derek told me about what you did so you wouldn't get arrested. I can't fucking believe you. How many fucking guys do you screw a week, huh, Skylar? Not including me."

I realize he wants me to answer him, but I shake my head slowly, unwilling to talk about it. The truth is I've only let one guy fuck me, for a bottle of booze and carton of cigarettes, because I was so desperate that day; I was hurting so bad. But I can't even count how many dicks I've touched or sucked for alcohol and cigarettes. Just that thought makes me want to kill myself- I'm so disgusting.

He makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat and looks away from me for a second before turning back to glare at me more.

"You know, I thought you actually cared about me, but now I see the whole act is just a fucking joke to you. I'm just another dick for you to suck so you can get stuff from me," he says.

A sob breaks through my lips and I shake my head quickly.

"That's not true..." I whisper, "I do care about you-"

Another stinging slap silences me.

"Shut up," he snarls. "I don't want to fucking hear it. I thought-" he looks away and takes a deep breath, then bites his lip. "Fuck..." He hisses, staring at the ground for a long time before finally looking back at me. "I like you Skylar. A lot. More than I want to admit, and it fucking scares the shit out of me. I can't get you out of my fucking head. Every time I kiss Brittany, I wish it was you. Every time I have sex with her, I imagine it's you. You are so fucking nice and sweet, all you seem to want in life is to please people. It's like you don't care about what happens to you, as long as everyone around you is happy. I love everything about you, Skylar. And that drives me fucking crazy. I never thought I would feel this way about another guy. It terrifies me. But when I saw those fucking pictures today... Shit... I just- I couldn't believe it. I can't believe you would lower yourself to being a whore when you are such a good person... How long have you been doing it?" He asks.

I stare up at him, his words shocking me beyond comprehension. He likes me? He loves everything about me...? That's why he pushed me away today...

"How long?" He asks again, shoving me against the door firmly when I don't answer immediately.

I look away and shake my head, wanting him to just drop it; I hate thinking about it. I remember the first time so vividly...

_I was thirteen. It was late, probably close to two in the morning. Dad had beaten me that evening and then fucked me really hard before he fell asleep. After he passed out I snuck out of the house and just started walking, ignoring the horrible ache between my legs and the pain in my back from his belt, wanting to just escape from my body so I didn't have to feel anything._

_I ended up at the convenience store up the road, wishing I had a cigarette or something to calm my shaken nerves. I had just started smoking and drinking, gladly trying anything my neighbor Mitch offered me. The only thing he didn't offer me then was drugs; I started trying those a few months after I turned fourteen. It wasn't from peer pressure or anything like that, I asked him for it, begged him for anything that would get my mind off my life. Even though he felt like I was too young he let me, knowing that the bruises on my face came from my father's hand. He wouldn't buy me my own packs or my own bottles though, only letting me drink and smoke in his room. I always asked him to get me some, but he always refused, telling me that he didn't want me to get caught by my dad._

_When I think back to it now, I understand that Mitch was just trying to protect me. But that night I hated him for treating me like such a baby and making me suffer. I wanted the soothing feeling of nicotine or the numbing feeling of alcohol rushing through my body so badly that I would have done anything to get it._

_The fairly busy diner and convenience store is open twenty-four hours, so there were a few people in the building and some getting gas at the pumps. I sat down on the sidewalk beside the big, metal chest full of bags of ice, leaning against the brick wall and watching the customers come and go, just trying to get my mind off of everything. The thought had honestly never even crossed my mind about the things I could do to get what I wanted. I was naive and innocent in a way, but I was also unfortunately more experienced than most people my age. But when he approached me and smiled at me with that perverted grin, I wasn't sure what he wanted._

_I don't remember his name, but I will never forget what he looked like. He was tall, handsome for his age, even with the salt and pepper hair and the faint lines creasing his face. He wore a nice red dress shirt and black dress pants, with shiny black loafers. His eyes were tired, he was on his way home from a bar and had stopped to get something to eat. When he kneeled down in front of me I could smell the alcohol and cigarettes on his breath; he kind of smelled like dad._

_"Hey there," his voice was smooth and pleasant. "You sure are young to be out here by yourself at this time of night; it's not safe. Are your parents inside?"_

_I shook my head slowly, feeling a strange attraction towards the man, something that I couldn't comprehend. It's an odd feeling, the connection I feel with most men, and I still can't understand it to this day; I assume it has something to do with my father..._

_His smile broadened, but his eyes looked sympathetic, almost like he was worried about me. It made me feel good, to know that this stranger cared enough to be concerned about my safety._

_"Are you hungry? I was about to get something to eat and I'd love for you to join me," he said softly._

_I was starving. It was summer vacation, my least favorite time of the year because I had no excuse not to be at home. That meant no school, so I hadn't eaten lunch that day, and dad hadn't let me eat supper that night or anything during the day before as a punishment for being clumsy and bumping into him. The idea of food sounded so good, but there was a problem._

_"I don't have any money," I told him quietly, feeling embarrassed for some reason._

_He just smiled and stood up, offering me his hand to help me to my feet._

_"That's no problem, it's my treat. Besides, I could use the company."_

_I guess in a way I had been flattered that an adult would purposely want me around and actually enjoy my presence; the only other adult I was ever near was dad. I was nervous because he was a stranger and I knew he could hurt me, but I honestly didn't care. Besides, it wasn't like he could do anything to me that dad already hadn't. So I let him help me stand up and I followed him into the restaurant._

_We sat down and he told me to get whatever I wanted, so I did: chocolate chip pancakes. They were so good. He watched me eat, a small smile gracing his lips. At first I was so nervous I could barely look at him, but he started chatting casually with me and eventually I relaxed. He talked to me like he actually cared about what I had to say; it made me feel special, like I was important or something. He asked me about school and my hobbies and what I did for fun. He wanted to know about my friends and what I planned on doing when I grew up. He seemed like such a nice guy._

_At one point he pulled out his cigarettes and started smoking one. I watched him, my eyes trained on that white stick, the craving for that soothing feeling making my mouth water. I didn't understand that I was already addicted to them, I just knew I needed one really bad. He must have noticed the look in my eyes because he smirked._

_"Do you smoke, Sky?" He asked almost teasingly._

_I ducked my head guiltily, but nodded. He chuckled._

_"But you're so young, how do you get them?" He wanted to know._

_I shrugged._

_"My friend, Mitch; he's six years older than me. He lets me smoke them at his house," I explained, longingly watching the smoke leave his lips._

_"Does he buy you your own packs?" He asked curiously._

_I made a face and shook my head._

_"No," I grumbled, still pissed about that fact, "He won't because he's afraid I'll get caught with them."_

_"Well that's not very fair, I think you're mature enough to make your own decisions," he said, leaning back in his chair comfortably._

_"You do?" I asked, amazed that he actually saw me as mature._

_He nodded and smiled._

_"Tell you what, I'll buy you your own pack if you just give me the cash for it," he said slyly._

_I couldn't believe that he was actually willing to buy me my own box, but then the crushing sadness hit when his words registered._

_"But I don't have any cash," I told him disappointedly._

_"Oh, that's right..." He said, seeming disappointed too, but then he smiled again. "Well, maybe instead of cash we could make a trade."_

_"But I don't have anything with me," I told him, actually debating on walking back to my house to find something to give him in exchange for the pack I wanted so desperately._

_"Not all trades are objects, Sky, sometimes it can be a favor. You could do something for me and I'll pay you back with a pack of cigs. It's called bartering," he explained, making himself seem so smart in my thirteen year old brain._

_"What could I do for you...?" I asked quietly, wondering what on Earth a grown man would want a child to do for him._

_He smiled pleasantly, seeming so trustworthy and nice._

_"Come with me to the bathroom and I'll show you..."_

_I got up and followed him, my naive curiosity outweighing my nervousness. When I think back to it now I don't know why I didn't already know what he wanted, he had the same look in his eyes that dad did when he messed with me. Sometimes I wonder how he knew I would do it, I guess I just look like a little cocksucker. The man led me into the empty single stall and locked the door, then unzipped his pants and showed me his erection. I pressed my back against the wall tightly. I was scared, terrified that he was going to rape me. He chuckled at my wide eyes._

_"Don't worry, Skylar, you don't have to do this if you don't want to, I just can't get you your cigarettes if you don't. It wouldn't be fair to me, understand buddy?"_

_I stared up at him, my fragile conscience screaming that this was wrong and bad, but that nagging craving for nicotine was so much louder. It wasn't anything I hadn't done before, dad had used me in every way possible at this point in my life, and I hated it every time. But this man wasn't forcing me, it was my choice, something I had never had before. That made me feel almost powerful..._

_When I hesitated for too long, he started to zip his pants back up, but I touched his hand, making him pause._

_"Wait, I'll do whatever you want me to do," I told him with a nervous smile._

_He had grinned widely and reached out to brush his thumb over my mouth, letting me know what he wanted without having to say anything; I tried really hard not to flinch when he touched me._

_On my knees looking up at him, I had second thoughts. Just looking at his cock made me feel that familiar dread and nausea. But I kept the idea of having my own pack of cigarettes in my mind as I took him into my mouth. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, making my own decision about something like that is a lot different than being forced._

_When I finished, I had felt wrong and dirty, so guilty that it had made my stomach hurt. He told me to wait outside where he had found me. I waited nervously, so afraid that he had lied and would just leave without getting me what he said he would. But then he came back out and handed me my payment. Having that box and lighter in my hand made what I had done seem not as bad as it had felt at first. And his smile had made it even better. But what made it all worth it was that first cigarette when I was walking home; it seemed to taste better because I had worked for it._

_At that time, I didn't know that what I had done was considered whoring myself out or that it was something I would ever do again. But the week after, when I smoked my last cigarette from my hard earned pack, I went back to the store in hopes he would be there to let me earn another box. He wasn't, I'm pretty sure he had been from out of town, but that didn't stop me. I just waited around until another man smiled at me, just like he had. I never saw that guy again, but I think about him almost every time I "barter" for something now..._

Blake shakes me from my memory, literally, his big hands gripping my shoulders.

"Would you fucking answer me, Skylar?" He asks angrily, pushing me back into the truck.

I stare up at him, debating on not telling him, but I finally cave, the look on his face too frightening to avoid his question.

"I was thirteen..." I tell him quietly, looking at my feet, the shame making me feel sick.

His silence makes me glance up and I see he's staring at me like just the sight of me makes him want to vomit. It hurts so much to see that look on his face.

"I'm sorry," I whisper hoarsely, hoping he'll say something, anything, as long as he stops looking at me like that.

He shakes his head, now glaring at me with contempt.

"I can't fucking believe you. Why? What made a thirteen year old kid want to do something like that!? Weren't you scared? I mean- I just, don't understand..." He says, a bewildered tone in his voice.

I shake my head.

"You're right, Blake, you don't understand and you never will. I'm sorry," I tell him softly. I can't even try to explain it to him because then I would have to tell him that my father has been sexually abusing me for five years and I've never told anyone that sad piece of information; no one knows what happens in my house late at night.

"No, I'm sorry, Sky," he says quietly, making me look up at his words with a tiny glimmer of hope, but then he continues. "I'm sorry I made the stupid mistake of deciding to talk to you that first day of school. I should have never become involved with you the way I did. I should have just treated you like everyone else does, like the piece of trash that you are..."

His words make me flinch and start to cry harder, but he keeps talking.

"I can't believe I was actually starting to have feelings for you. But I guess I should have known that you were like this from that very first time you were so willing to blow me. Ugh! It just makes me so fucking sick to think of how many times you sucked some guy off at a gas station and then came to school and put that disgusting mouth on me. I should break your damn jaw for what you've done... But I'm not going to hurt you. You know why? Because you're not worth my fucking time. I don't want to see you again Skylar, so stay the fuck away from me. Have fun walking home."

He grabs my jacket and jerks me off of his truck, only to push me away. I trip over my own feet and land on the brown, crunchy leaves smothering the ground. I watch him climb back into his truck and crank the engine, then slowly back out of the entrance. Before he pulls out onto the road he rolls his passenger window down and throws my book bag out. He finishes backing out, then guns his engine and takes off, not giving me a backwards glance.

I listen to the sound of his loud motor fading into the distance as I stare at the spot where my book bag fell, feeling like a piece of dirt. After a few minutes I slowly get to my feet and just stare at the ground, his words echoing in my head. I'm not mad at him, everything he said was the truth, I deserved every hurtful comment. He had every right to beat the shit out of me, I'm grateful that he didn't. Blake deserves so much better than me...

But I can't stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks or push away the horrible ache in my chest. He was the best thing that had ever happened to me and I fucked it all up, just like I do everything else in my life. I don't deserve happiness, I am worth nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I start walking in the opposite direction of my house, not ready to go home and face my father. I leave my book bag since I'm not planning on going back to school anyways; it's not like I have any reason to go now. I head in the direction of town, planning on walking to Mitch's apartment, the only person in my life now who doesn't hate me. As I stumble along I pull out a cigarette and start smoking, bitterly thinking that these stupid things are the whole reason I'm even in this mess to begin with.


	7. Comforted

The walk to Mitch's from the cemetery takes a horribly long time, close to two hours just to get into town and then another twenty minutes or so to get to his apartment complex. It normally only takes me an hour from my house, which isn't so bad. I was devastated when he moved out of his parent's place a couple months ago. He had been planning on it ever since he got enough money to buy his car, so I don't know why I was so surprised when he told me he was moving. I knew he couldn't live at his parent's forever, it just sucks that he's so far away now. Now I can't run to him every time dad beats the shit out of me really bad anymore.

I sort of feel like he abandoned me, but I know that's selfish. I've had to face the fact that he has his own life and I'm just not a part of it. He's just a really nice guy that puts up with me since he watched me grow up. I've only been to his new place three times: two times to buy weed from him when Blake asked me to, and once when I called Mitch from the pay phone at the gas station and begged him to come get me so I could hide from dad for a few hours.

By the time I get there I'm exhausted and pretty much sober, clear headed enough for my erratic thoughts to be driving me crazy and making me want to bash my skull into a brick wall. Every time I've managed to stop crying I either see something that reminds me of Blake or I trip and fall, then the water works start up again. I'm such a baby.

The apartments are in a trashy, cheap neighborhood, one that you have to make sure to watch your back in. I'm usually pretty careful around this area, but I don't really give a shit today; it's not like I have a reason to care about my safety. Luckily no one messes with me though and I manage to make it to Building C unharmed, with only minor injuries from my clumsy falls.

I drag myself up the stairs to apartment C-7 and knock on the old, door with green peeling paint. A few seconds later the door swings open to reveal a man I don't recognize with short black hair and dark brown eyes. I'm not surprised to see him, Mitch always has friends over. The distinct smell of pot wafts out of the doorway as the guy stares down at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Yeah?" He asks in an irritated voice.

"Is Mitch home?" I ask quietly, praying that he is; I don't know what I'll do if he's not.

The guy stares at me for a second, then turns and hollers into the apartment.

"Mitch, some little kid is here asking for you!"

I struggle not to roll my eyes at his "little kid" comment as I hear movement within the room beyond the door.

"Why the fuck is a little kid asking to see me?" Mitch's familiar voice comes through the doorway a few seconds before he appears.

His curly brown hair is ruffled and messed, he's only wearing pajama pants, and his bright green eyes are red rimmed and bloodshot. It looks like he was taking a nap, but I know he's just high- he's always high. He towers over me like everyone does, but I've never been scared of Mitch, he's never hurt me and I know he never will; he looks at me like a little brother and treats me like one too. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me and I wonder how bad I look. I tried my best to wipe the blood and tears off my face, but apparently I didn't do a good job.

"Holy shit, Sky. What the fuck happened?" He asks, sincere concern and worry in his husky voice.

I try really hard not to cry, but for some reason his question makes me burst into sobs again. He looks surprised for a second, but then grabs my arm and quickly pulls me into a warm hug like he's done so many times before when I've shown up at his door with tears in my eyes.

"What the fuck did that bastard do to you this time?" He grumbles, referring to my father.

I shake my head and try to explain it wasn't dad this time, but I can't get a word out of my mouth because of my hiccupping sobs. He holds me for a few seconds, but then pulls me away from him enough to walk me into the apartment and shut the door. He brings me into the living room and pulls me down onto the couch, holding me in his lap and just letting me cry. The blaring TV luckily makes my sobs sound quieter than they actually are, and the other guy doesn't seem interested in my bawling, but I still feel embarrassed and keep my face buried in the crook of Mitch's shoulder with my arms wrapped around his neck. I'm such a pussy.

I cry for a long time, feeling ridiculous and stupid, but unable to stop. It feels like I'm crying a tear for every sinful act I've committed in my pathetic life to get something. Mitch doesn't seem to care at all, even though I'm getting tears and snot all over him, which I'm thankful for; I don't think I could handle another person getting mad at me today.

When I finally quiet down and relax some he nudges my arm. I look over and see the joint he's offering me that him and his friend have been passing back and forth for the past few minutes. I gladly reach out with a shaking hand to take it, but then Mitch's other hand is suddenly wrapped around my thin wrist.

"What the fuck did he do to you, kid!? Shove your hand through a fucking window?" He asks, referring to my glass embedded knuckles.

I shake my head and try to pull my hand from his grip, but he won't let me go. He hands the guy the joint back and abruptly stands up, pulling me to my feet at the same time. Then he's dragging me down the hall to the bathroom.

He closes the toilet lid and pushes me down to sit on it before he closes the door and turns to start digging in the drawers under the sink counter. When he finds everything he's looking for he comes back to kneel in front of me and sets the stuff down on the floor, which includes wash cloths, gauze, bandages, tape, peroxide, and first aid ointment. In his hand is a pair of tweezers. He grabs my hand gently and examines it closely before he starts carefully pulling the shards out of my knuckles one at a time.

It stings, but I don't complain; it's nice having someone else tend to my wounds for once instead of having to do it myself. I watch him for a few minutes, but eventually look away, guilt making me unable to continue watching my blood coat Mitch's fingers. I always feel bad when someone else has to clean up a mess I made. While he's working he glances up at my face a few times before he finally speaks quietly, like how someone would talk to a little kid who just fell and scraped their knee.

"Care to tell me what happened? Or is it not something you want to talk about?" He asks, so used to my secretiveness that I can tell he's not expecting an answer.

I've never actually told Mitch that my father beats me, he figured that out himself when I was around seven years old and I didn't deny it since it was the truth. But when he said he was going to call the police I panicked and begged him not to tell anyone. I told him how dad talked himself out of getting arrested when another neighbor called the cops and I told him how bad he beat me after they left. Mitch couldn't understand why they hadn't done anything and was pissed that I wouldn't go to the police myself, but he eventually dropped it when he saw how scared I was at just the mention of turning my father in.

My whole life I have been told over and over by my parents not to tell people what happens inside of our house or to tell anyone where my bruises come from. I've been threatened repeatedly with horrible punishments if anyone ever did find out and those threats have been reinforced with pain. And I've seen dozens of times where my father has talked himself out of things that I was sure he would get in trouble for. I can't explain the fear I feel when I think about telling someone about my abuse. It has been so ingrained in me that I will never turn my dad in, no matter what happens.

I hope that in a few years I'll be able to escape my father's wrath and move out, that I'll get on with my life and be able to look back and feel good in knowing I survived horrible suffering. I hope that I'll be a stronger person because of it in some way. But if I don't get away from dad in time, if he finally does kill me, it's not going to really matter; it's not like anyone would miss me.

I silently watch Mitch's gentle hands for a few moments, debating on whether or not to tell him what happened. He doesn't know what I do for smokes and alcohol, and I don't want to tell him, but I really want to talk to him about everything; he's the only person I have right now...

"I punched a mirror," I finally say quietly, looking away.

He looks up at me with a slightly shocked expression, but then he chuckles softly and shakes his head as he looks back down at my bloody hand.

"About fucking time you showed a little bit of anger over how you're treated. I can't believe you managed to break it with your tiny hand though. Damn, I would have liked to see you that pissed. You're always so emotionless, it's sort of depressing," he says, pulling out a particularly big piece of glass and mumbling a soft "Jesus Christ".

"I was mad at myself," I murmur, watching with wide eyes as that spot on my hand starts gushing blood.

Mitch grabs some gauze and presses it to the cut, holding it tightly to staunch the bleeding. He looks up at me with a slight glare.

"And why were you mad at yourself? You don't do anything wrong in your life, Sky. What reason would you have to be mad at yourself?" He asks skeptically.

His words make me feel worse than I already do, since I do in fact do a lot of bad things; like giving blow jobs for booze.

"I'm not as innocent as you think..." I mumble, looking away again.

He's quiet for another few seconds as he looks at my hand closely, making sure he got all of the glass out.

"Are you talking about what you do to get cigarettes and liquor?" He asks quietly, still concentrating on my hand.

My body stiffens at his words and I look back at him. He glances up and gives me a small smirk before reaching down to grab the peroxide.

"You thought I didn't know?" He asks as he holds the wash rag under my hand and soaks my hand in the clear liquid.

I wince as the cuts begin to bubble and foam, but I keep my eyes on Mitch.

"How?" I ask barely above a whisper, feeling ashamed.

He sighs and looks up at me while he lets the peroxide do its work.

"I saw you getting out of some pervert's car one day while I was getting gas. He went into the store and came back with a pack of cigarettes that he handed to you and I just put two and two together. Besides, I knew you had to be getting it from somewhere when you stopped asking me to buy you stuff. I never said anything because you never mentioned it, and it's your business," he tells me softly.

I look away from his kind gaze, feeling embarrassed.

"I'm disgusting..." I say quietly, tears beginning to drip from my eyes again.

Mitch sighs loudly and stands up, pulling me up to stand with him. He moves my hand over to the sink to run warm water over it, then pushes me gently to sit back down. He kneels back down in front of me and carefully dries my skin off, then begins to doctor it with first aid cream.

"You're not disgusting, Skylar," he says softly. "The dicks who are willing to take advantage of a young kid and let you do stuff like that are disgusting. And your damn jackass father is disgusting for fucking you up and making you think it's okay to perform tricks for things."

His words make me freeze.

"W-what do you mean?" I squeak out worriedly.

He glances up at me with a stern look and shakes his head as he begins to bandage my hand.

"Skylar, everyone else in this fucked up world may ignore you, but I've watched you grow up since you were a baby. I saw when you changed after your mom left, and it wasn't a normal change that a kid goes through when their parents get a divorce. This was completely different." Mitch shakes his head and sighs again. "I saw how you would limp when you came over and how you would wince when you sat down. Your voice changed, it became real husky from him messing your throat up by choking you with his fucking dick. And your entire demeanor changed. You became even more withdrawn than you were before and your eyes got this far off look in them that was just there all the time, a permanent haunted look in them. It took me a while to figure it out, but it made sense when I did. God, you were ten fucking years old," he rubs a hand over his eyes. "Your dad's fucked up, Sky. Really fucked up," he says seriously, pulling his hand away to look into my eyes.

I look away from Mitch's face, my stomach twisting uncomfortably.

"I told my mom that you were being abused, even though you begged me not to tell anyone. I couldn't keep it to myself when I realized you were being sexually abused too," Mitch continues softly after a few seconds of silence. "But she didn't believe me, saying some bullshit about your dad was a nice man and loved you or some shit. So I called the abuse hotline myself, and do you know what they fucking told me?" I glance back at him, my eyes wide. "They said I needed proof for them to investigate. How fucked up is that? They probably thought I was pulling a fucking prank or something. Shit... I'm sorry, Sky," he shakes his head again sadly. "You are such a sweet kid, you never deserved to be treated like this... I'm sorry I didn't work harder to help you, I just... Didn't know what else to do for you except be nice to you..." he finishes quietly.

I stare at him in silence, stunned that he knew this whole time; he's the only one who does know. But for some reason, as uncomfortable as it makes me feel, it also makes me feel better. Like some of the weight I'm always carrying on my shoulders has been lifted. And Mitch tried to help me. That means so much to me, even if it didn't work.

"Thank you," I murmur quietly, gazing at him with admiration.

He looks up at me and sighs again.

"Fuck, kid, don't look at me like that. And don't thank me; I didn't do shit to help you in any way. In fact I probably made your life worse by getting you hooked on all this shit in the first place. It's not like I'm a good role model or anything," he grumbles, finishing with my hand and standing up to lean against the wall across from me with his arms crossed over his chest.

I shrug and give him a small smile, trying to make him feel better.

"It helps me though, so you helped me in that way. And it gave me an excuse to see you more," I tell him quietly.

He closes his eyes for a second and shakes his head, chuckling softly.

"Skylar, you are so fucking adorable. You're like a damn kitten," he says softly, opening his eyes to smile at me.

I glare at his description.

"Wow, thanks..." I grumble, looking away.

"Sorry, kiddo. I'm high off my ass right now and you know how I get. You really do look like a little animal with your big eyes though," he says with a laugh.

"Fuck you, Mitch," I say, but can't help but smile at his goofy grin.

He shrugs and gazes at me for a second with a caring smile before his face gets serious.

"What happened today to make you cry like that, Sky? I've never seen you so upset..." He asks quietly.

I look at him for a second, hating the desperate feeling in my chest that makes me want to tell him everything, but for once I can't hold back my thoughts and they suddenly spill out. I tell him all about Blake and the strange relationship we developed. I tell him about the fight and the cop, leaving out the embarrassing detail about me getting off the hook with a blow job; I'm ashamed to admit that to him. I tell him about everything that happened this morning, how Blake's friends tricked me and how Jax tried to gang rape me. And I tell him what Blake said and how everything he said was true, and that I think I love Blake and it hurts so much that I screwed up so bad.

By the time I'm done with my long winded explanation I'm sobbing pathetically again and I'm honestly surprised Mitch can even understand the words coming from my mouth. He's been silent the whole time, listening intently, except for a few uttered "what the fucks" and some other choice words to describe my classmates.

When I finish he doesn't say anything for a long time and just stares at me while I sniffle and hiccup, and continuously wipe away my tears on my now soaked jacket sleeve. He suddenly reaches out and pulls me to my feet, wrapping his arms around me in a tight hug.

"Fuck all those pricks. You're too fucking good to have to deal with this fucking shit, Sky. You don't deserve this," he mumbles, resting his chin on the top of my head and running his hand through the hair at the nape of my neck.

I snuggle into his embrace, enjoying the tender interaction even if it is hurting my back, but I shake my head.

"It's true what they said though, Mitch. I do deserve it. I'm just a faggot whore. Blake should have never even talked to me. I'm a loser. I should have never let myself even imagine that I could actually be happy for once in my pathetic life," I mumble into his chest.

"Goddammit Skylar!" He says loudly, suddenly pulling me off of him to hold me at arm's length and look down at me, startling me with his outburst. "You just don't realize how fucking great you are, do you!? I have never met a sweeter kid than you! Fuck Blake! That bastard didn't know how good he had it to even be able to associate with you! He's the fucking loser, babe, not you! Youdeserve better, not him. You deserve someone who worships the fucking ground you walk on; who can't stop thinking about you for a minute. Someone who will treat you how you need to be treated, Sky. You deserve so much more than the fucking life you've been given. I wish you could see that," he finishes softly.

His words are so nice and they give me a warm, fuzzy feeling in my chest, but I don't understand how he thinks I'm so great. It's not like I'm perfect like he makes it sound. I'm the farthest from perfect you can get. But I don't want Mitch to be mad at me, so I just nod and try to give him a smile. He sighs and pulls me back into another tight hug.

"I'm sorry all that shit happened to you today, kiddo. Why don't you hang out here with me for a little while and we can watch a movie and smoke? I can order a pizza and I'll drive you home later," he offers.

I nod again before reluctantly pulling away from the hug, so glad that I at least have one person in my life who wants to willingly be around me for purposes other than using me.

"I have to be home before ten, or dad will get pissed," I tell him, hoping I don't get in trouble for hanging out over here.

"Alright, I'll make sure to bring you home before then. Come on, kid," he says smiling at me and putting his arm around me in a brotherly way.

We go back into the living room and Mitch tells me to sit on the couch while he starts digging for his cell phone, trying to find it in all of the crap on his coffee table.

"By the way, Sky, this is Chad. Chad this is Sky. He's my new roommate," Mitch says offhandedly, moving from the coffee table to a desk with an old computer on it in his search.

The older guy who answered the door for me nods in my direction.

"So you're Skylar, huh? I've heard all about you," he says, puffing on a joint.

I wonder exactly what Mitch has been saying about me, feeling a little nervous, but then he returns with his phone and plops down beside me.

"You sound like a fucking creep, Chad," he says to his friend lightheartedly before turning to me. "All I told him about you, Sky, is how you could out-smoke a fucking chimney stack at thirteen. He was impressed," he says with a wink, making me smile.

Chad chuckles and nods before he hands Mitch the joint and stands up to stretch.

"I gotta piss, get anchovies on the pizza," he says, walking towards the bathroom.

"Fuck no," Mitch says with a laugh, then takes a hit and hands the stick to me so he can dial the number.

While we wait for the pizza to get there we start watching some stupid scary movie about some campers who get murdered. I snuggle up on the couch with Mitch, taking comfort in his warmth and the joint he shares with me. After the pizza finally arrives, he puts his arm around me and we stay like that while we eat until he gets up and decides to make us all some mixed drinks. We smoke and drink and watch another scary movie when the first one is over, both of them talking about girls and drugs, and me sitting quietly like always, enjoying their company; I'm glad they don't mind me hanging out with them.

For a couple hours I'm able to forget about Blake and all of the assholes I had to deal with today while I laugh at Chad and Mitch's jokes and their playful banter. I can tell that Mitch is trying to make me feel better and just the fact that he even cares enough to do that helps the hurt go away some.

Around eight Chad goes to his room and Mitch pulls me over to him on the couch and holds me close to him with his arm around me again. I curl up against him and we talk quietly for a while about anything and everything. I feel myself starting to get drowsy, but I struggle to stay awake because I know I should be getting home soon.

I close my eyes for a second and then suddenly gasp awake, feeling a wave of panic crash over me when I realize I fell asleep. Shit! The movie has stopped playing and the DVD menu is repeating over and over with creepy pictures flashing on the screen and eerie music in the background. Mitch is still beside me with his head leaned back on the couch, snoring softly.

I sit up quickly and grab his phone off the coffee table to see what time it is. I have a mini heart attack when I see the small numbers: 12:14am. Fuck!

Mitch woke up when I sat up so abruptly and he yawns, stretching lazily.

"Mitch we fell asleep! I need to get home!" I tell him in a panicked rush.

"Shit..." He says with another big yawn, scratching his head. "What time is it?"

I show him his phone and he blinks at it a few times before it seems like he can actually read the numbers on the screen.

"Fuck, Sky, it's past midnight. I don't know how we didn't wake up when Chad left for work," he mutters.

"Mitch, I'm going to be in so much trouble. Please take me home," I say quickly, standing up, already imagining the horrible things dad is going to do to me to punish me when I get there.

Mitch looks up at me with a guilty look on his face, worrying me tremendously.

"Sky, Chad has my car. His is in the shop right now so he's borrowing mine to go to work; he works the late night shift at a bar and left an hour ago," he tells me softly.

I stare at him in disbelief, feeling sick to my stomach.

"I have to go home, Mitch. I'll just walk," I whisper, walking towards the front door in a daze, dreading facing dad, but knowing it will only be worse the longer I wait.

He stands up and grabs my arm quickly, a bewildered look on his face.

"Fuck no, Skylar! I'm not letting you walk home this late by yourself, it's fucking dangerous as hell out there," he tells me, shaking his head. "Look, as soon as Chad gets back I'll drive you home and explain to your dad what happened, okay? He gets home around six in the morning usually and that will give us enough time to get to your house before your dad leaves for work. Come on, you can crash in my bed," he says, starting to lead me to his bedroom.

I shake my head and resist his pulling, feeling unwanted tears begin to stream down my cheeks.

"Mitch that'll just make it worse," I whisper hoarsely, feeling like in going to puke. "He's going to be so mad. He's going to fucking kill me," I tell him, remembering what he did to my back last night.

Mitch sighs and grabs my shoulders gently, looking me in the eye with a stern look that seems too grown up for his face.

"Skylar, you are not walking home. There's nothing we can do except wait. If you want, I can call him and tell him what's going on, but that's it," he says softly.

I quickly shake my head, knowing it would just make dad even more pissed if Mitch wakes him up with a phone call this late. He sighs again.

"Look, I'm really sorry we fell asleep, but I'm not going to let you risk your life just because your dad might beat you, okay? Tomorrow after I drop you off, I'll hang out over at my folks house for a little while and keep an ear out for you. If anything happens you get the hell out of there and run over, alright? Then we'll call the police and I'll fucking make sure they do something to help you," he tells me, giving me a gentle shake for emphasis.

I stare up at him, a turmoil of emotions fighting inside of me. I know he's right, it's really dangerous out on the streets this late, but I'm more scared of my father's anger than I am of any street gang or mugger. But maybe it will be better if Mitch does talk to him, it's worth a shot I guess... And he said he would be at his old house for a while in case I need him...

I finally nod slowly and he lets out a small sigh of relief and smiles.

"Good, now come on, you can bunk with me," he says, leading me to his room.

He finds me a big t-shirt to sleep in and I go to the bathroom to change. When I return, he's already in bed in the dark room, the only source of light coming from the street lights glowing through the window. I'm surprised to see he's smoking another joint lazily; it has always amazed me with how much he can smoke. I climb under the covers and he hands it to me. I normally never smoke this much and I'm not feeling very good from all of the shit I've done tonight, but I take it anyway, hoping it will calm my nerves and help me sleep.

We sit in silence, lying side by side, staring up at the ceiling for a long time. When we're finished with the joint Mitch looks over at me and just stares at me for a while. His gaze bothers me after a few minutes and I finally turn my head to look at him. He's looking at me with an odd expression, a mixture between sadness and frustration.

"What?" I ask softly.

He sighs and shakes head.

"I just wish there was something else I could do for you. You don't deserve the life you have, Skylar, no matter what you think. If I could, I would get you the hell away from that bastard father and just let you live with me, but God knows I'm not any better for you… You deserve someone who would take care of you like you need…" He says softly, reaching over and gently brushing my bangs away from my eyes.

I try really hard not to, but I flinch from his kind touch, my shaken nerves making it hard to relax. He looks at me sadly and sighs heavily.

"I'm sorry, Sky," he says softly before rolling over to face the wall. "Night," he mumbles quietly a few seconds later.

"Good night," I whisper, continuing to stare up at the shadows on the ceiling, not feeling tired at all anymore.

I think about what Mitch said for a long time, about how I deserve someone to take care of me like I need, and I realize I've never been taken care of properly in my life. Sure, mom took care of me when I was little like she was supposed to, like feeding and bathing me, but I never felt like she really cared that much about me. She never did anything when dad would beat me or punish me harshly, normally she just left the room or sometimes left the house all together. It was almost like she thought I deserved to be punished.

When she left us when I was ten, I learned that I had been a mistake, that mom had never wanted to get pregnant with me. Her parents forced my mom and dad to get married when they found out she was expecting, because it was "the right thing to do". I was unwanted from the very beginning and I think I was a permanent reminder to my mother of the biggest mistake she ever made. I don't think I ever felt real love from her. I was just an obligation. My parents stayed together for as long as they could, but they fought all the time and the usual topic of their fights was me. All I do is cause problems…

Mitch begins to snore softly when he slips into deep sleep and I finally roll over to my side and try to fall asleep, but every time I close my eyes I can only imagine the horrible, painful things dad is going to do to me when I get home. I think about Mitch's assurance that I can just run to him if dad starts beating me, but then I bitterly think of how many times dad has tied me up and thrown me in the closet, locking me in for days without food or water, or tied me to his bed and gagged me so I couldn't scream for help; how would I run to Mitch then?

I realize I'm trembling from fear and silent tears are soaking the pillow beneath my head. I'm so terrified of my father. I wish I could just run away, but I tried that once when I was twelve. I wasn't sure where I was planning on going, I just knew that anywhere would be better than my own home, but he found me just a few hours after I left. He took me back to the house and beat me until I was barely conscious, informing me afterwards that I was his "property" and that if I ever tried leaving again he would break my legs to make sure I couldn't. I have no doubt that he would have went through with his threat…

I need to go home now, it will only be worse the longer I wait.

I get out of his bed quietly, stumbling slightly from my drug clouded mind, and I go to the bathroom to change back into my clothes. I make sure Mitch is still sleeping, then I go into the living room and make my way to the front door silently. It makes a small popping noise when I open it and I pause, listening to see if it woke him, but I can still hear him snoring. I close the door as quietly as I can, then walk down the stairs, planning on getting home as fast as I can to face my punishment. Hopefully dad won't kill me tonight.


End file.
